Mr Monk and the Christmas Surprise
by JoAnna47
Summary: Natalie manages to pull off a Christmas surprise that even her boss can appreciate. Unbeknownst to her, however, Adrian Monk also has a few Christmas surprises up his sleeve -- some he's still discovering for himself.
1. Chapter 1

"Natalie!" Ambrose Monk, having first peeked cautiously through the door, quickly unhooked the clasp and opened it wide. "What a pleasant surprise. Please, please, come in." He peered behind her. "Is Adrian with you?"

"No, it's just me. How are you?" Natalie inquired, stepping inside the Monk home.

"I'm quite well," he replied, closing the door behind her. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the lovely Ms. Teeger?"

Natalie laughed. For someone who never left his house and very rarely socially interacted with other women, Ambrose was quite the charmer. "I came to ask a favor, actually."

"A favor?" he repeated, one eyebrow raised in a very Monk-like gesture. "What's that?"

"I'd like you to come to my house for Christmas."

"To – to your house?" Ambrose paled noticeably. "Oh – I – thank you for the invitation, but I don't think I could do that."

Natalie took his hand in hers and smiled her most persuasive smile. Mitch had always said that no one could resist that smile unless they were made of stone. (Natalie, however, had since found out that Adrian Monk was an exception to the rule. Perhaps his brother was too, but she thought it was worth a try.) "It wouldn't be hard at all. I'll pick you up, we'll go straight there, and I'll bring you home again at the end of the night. It's just going to be me, Julie, and Mr. Monk, so no one unfamiliar."

Ambrose shuffled nervously, withdrawing his hand from hers and fiddling with some nearby papers. "We could have Christmas here," he offered. "If you and Julie wouldn't mind, that is."

"Ambrose." Natalie hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I don't think it'd be inaccurate to say that you and Mr. Monk haven't had very happy Christmas memories in this house."

He nodded reluctantly.

"I think that if we spent Christmas here, both you and Mr. Monk might spend too much time dwelling on those memories, and it might – well – dampen the holiday." Natalie took his hand again. "You've spent a lot of Christmases alone, I think. Wouldn't it be nice to spend the day with friends and family, in a new place with no bad memories attached to it?"

"Well, I – I suppose so," he conceded grudgingly. "But I don't think I can – I mean – _leave_. You know."

"I know how difficult it is for you, Ambrose," Natalie said softly. "And I realize it's a lot to ask. But don't you see what a wonderful Christmas gift it would be for Mr. Monk, to know that you left the house to spend Christmas with him? He would be _thrilled_."

"Do you think so?" Ambrose asked, frowning slightly.

Natalie nodded. "I _know_ so." She smiled, once again, her most coaxing smile. "Please, Ambrose? I'll do everything I can to make you comfortable."

Apparently Natalie's smile worked its magic once again, because Ambrose sighed and said, "I guess – I'll try. I can't make any promises, but I'll try."

She beamed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She squeezed his arm and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry, you'll have a great time. I promise. I'll pick you up at eight-thirty a.m. sharp on Christmas Day, all right?"

He blushed endearingly. "All right," he agreed, but still looked unsure. "See you then."

*

Christmas Day dawned clear and bright at the Teeger house that year.

Adrian Monk had grudgingly agreed to spend the night in the guest room – which he'd cleaned and sanitized to his own standards the entire morning yesterday – and had been up since eight a.m. sharp, as was his habit. Natalie, he'd assumed, was sleeping in, so he'd occupied his time reorganizing her spice cabinet. She'd actually had her cardamom between the curry powder and the dill weed. How she slept at night, he didn't know.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," Julie said, breezing into the kitchen. "Merry Christmas."

"Good morning, Julie," he said, nudging the paprika a millimeter closer to the parsley. "Guess your mom is sleeping in this morning."

"Mom? She's gone," Julie said, turning on the oven.

"Gone," he repeated in surprise, turning away from the cabinet in surprise. "What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?"

"She had to go do something," Julie said, moving to the refrigerator and taking out the ham Natalie had prepared the night before. "She'll be back soon." She slid the ham into the oven, humming a Christmas carol under her breath.

"What did she have to go do before eight a.m. on Christmas Day?" Monk said skeptically.

Julie just smiled enigmatically. "You'll see. It's a surprise."

"I hate surprises," Monk muttered fretfully. What was Natalie thinking? Now he'd have to spend the day pretending to tolerate whatever harebrained surprise she'd cooked up. He shuddered, remembering the Christmas when she and Julie had given him a – a _thing_ for Christmas. A _fish_!

"Don't worry, Mr. Monk," Julie said, reading his expression accurately. "You'll love it, I promise."

"Well, I won't hold my breath," he said, eyeing her askance.

He spent the next hour puttering around nervously, cleaning things that didn't need cleaning and straightening things that were already perfectly straight. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Natalie's car pull into the driveway. "It's about time," he muttered, washing his hands for the twentieth time that morning.

The front door opened just as he reached the archway between the kitchen and living room. Natalie came in, red-cheeked from an unusually cool San Francisco morning. She was smiling and her eyes were sparkling from excitement.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Monk," she said, and drew someone in by the hand.

Adrian stared, then blinked and stared again, hardly able to believe his eyes. "_Ambrose_?"

His elder brother was wearing what looked like a brand-new gray coat and matching gray fedora, and was laden with gaily-wrapped packages. He was also trembling slightly, likely from fear and nervousness. He managed a tenuous smile. "Merry Christmas, Adrian," he said.

"Ambrose!" Monk repeated, taking one step forward, and then another. With an incredulous laugh, he clasped his brother in his arms in a rare, spontaneous hug of affection as Natalie relieved Ambrose of his packages. "I don't believe it! What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, 'what is he doing here'?" Natalie asked, laughing. "He's come to spend Christmas with us."

"But – but _how_?" Adrian said, looking from one to the other.

"Natalie invited me," Ambrose said, relaxing a tiny bit. "She can be very persuasive."

"More like bulldozing," his brother replied wryly, but he was smiling as he said it. Natalie laughed again, nearly beside herself with delight at the success of her surprise.

"Hi, Ambrose," Julie said, popping out of the kitchen. "Merry Christmas!"

Ambrose waved at her timidly as Natalie ushered him inside. "You two make yourselves at home; I need to go start the potatoes," she said while hanging up her coat. "Julie, take Ambrose's packages and put them under the tree, please, and then come help me in the kitchen." She disappeared into the kitchen while Adrian helped Ambrose with his coat and hat and Julie took his gifts to the Christmas tree.

"Ambrose," Adrian said, once they were seated comfortably in the living room, "I still can't believe you left the house! How did you do it?"

Ambrose was looking slightly more comfortable and less as though he was preparing to bolt. "Natalie talked me into it," he said simply. "She said it would mean a lot to you."

"It does," Adrian said. "I'm proud of you."

Ambrose smiled. "Really?"

His brother nodded. "Really."

"I almost backed out," Ambrose admitted. "This morning, Natalie had to talk me into it all over again."

"The important thing is that you're here," Adrian said, reaching over to adjust the already perfectly-draped tinsel on the tree. "How long – how long has she been planning this?"

"Three weeks," Ambrose said. "She came to the house to invite me."

Adrian shook his head. "Some detective I am. I had no idea." He glanced at the kitchen, where he could hear the two Teeger ladies laughing and chatting as they prepared Christmas dinner.

"She's something, isn't she?" Ambrose said, following his gaze.

"Yeah," Adrian agreed quietly, almost to himself. "She is."

Later, after Natalie had called them both to dinner, he quietly detoured to the coat closet and extracted two small, wrapped packages from his coat pocket. They were Christmas gifts for Natalie and Julie – very special ones, and ones he'd been debating giving for weeks, changing his mind at least three times a day. This morning, he'd taken them from under the tree and put them back in his coat pocket. But now, he put them back, and resolved to leave them there.


	2. Chapter 2

What followed was the best Christmas Adrian could remember since losing Trudy. Natalie kept the conversation light and cheerful at dinner, even drawing out Ambrose. She tactfully avoided any mention of Christmas memories from their childhoods, but rather talked of funny Christmas memories she and Mitch and Julie had shared, as well as ones from her childhood. She talked about the recent cases she and Adrian had worked (with Adrian contributing a few details), and even got Ambrose to talk about his latest technical manual projects.

Ambrose, for his part, seemed to relax more as time went on. He hugely enjoyed the meal, judging from the second and sometimes third helpings he took of everything, and listened intently to her conversation. Julie chattered away about school, telling Ambrose about the A she'd gotten on her science project (with the help of Captain Stottlemeyer and Randy, she'd done a project on DNA analysis and crime scenes).

The meal ended with two sumptuous pies – mince, Adrian's favorite, as well as apple – and cups of cold eggnog, Natalie's favorite.

"Adrian and I will wash the dishes," Ambrose announced just as Natalie started to clear. "You two go and relax." He took his dirty plate from Natalie. "You've done enough; we'll take care of the clean up."

Natalie looked at Adrian, who'd frozen in his chair. Ambrose shot his brother a pointed glance that Natalie couldn't interpret and then said, "Well, Adrian, we are good at cleaning up. You wash, I'll dry." He grinned suddenly. "Just like the old days."

"Okay," Adrian suddenly acquiesced, even managing a slight smile. He rose and began gingerly collecting dirty silverware with his napkin. "I suppose that's fair."

"All right," Natalie said, exchanging a delighted glance with Julie. "Thank you."

The two of them popped in a movie – Irving Berlin's _White Christmas_ – while the Monk boys washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless, even to Adrian's standards. Working together, it didn't take them as long as might be expected, and the movie was just drawing to a close as Adrian and Ambrose joined Natalie and Julie in the living room.

Adrian, standing behind the couch, silently watched the ending scene – Bing Crosby kissing Rosemary Clooney while Danny Kaye kissed Vera Ellen. Trudy had loved this movie, and usually had watched it half a dozen times during the Christmas season. He glanced over at Natalie, who was smiling happily at the scene that she, also, must have seen a hundred times before. He felt a queer impulse to ease down beside her on the couch and put his arm around her shoulders, as he had with Trudy.

Just then Natalie glanced up, and their eyes met. Adrian hastily shifted his gaze to the television screen, hoping his eyes hadn't betrayed what he'd been thinking. What _had_ he been thinking? He was Trudy's husband, and always would be. Natalie was his assistant. Their relationship was strictly professional.

Wasn't it?

"Mom, is it time for presents?" Julie asked, her exuberant, youthful voice breaking into his thoughts.

"Sure," Natalie answered, casting a curious glance at her boss as she turned the movie off. He stubbornly refused to look at her, busying himself with straightening more tinsel on the tree, and she thought again of the fleeting glance they had just shared. He'd been looking at her as she'd never seen him look at her before, and she wondered what it meant. "C'mon, Julie, come and help me."

Adrian and Ambrose settled themselves into armchairs as Natalie and Julie together carried a large, wrapped box into the living room. "This is for you, Ambrose, from Julie and me," Natalie announced, hefting the box into his lap.

"For me?" Ambrose repeated his eyes wide. He carefully began to remove the wrapping, with Natalie and Julie waiting patiently – they were all too familiar with how meticulous Adrian was when it came to unwrapping gifts, and Ambrose was no different. Finally the wrapping was off and Ambrose gently removed the top of the box.

He caught his breath at the six shining plaques inside. "My NSIMW awards!" he exclaimed, lifting one of the plaques gingerly. "But – " he gazed at her in amazement. "The Society is headquartered in _Virginia_! How did you – ?"

Natalie shrugged modestly, but her smile was ear-to-ear. "My father went to Arlington for a business trip a few weeks ago," she said. "I asked him to pick them up. I called someone at NSIMW and they said it'd be okay if you had a proxy get them in your stead."

"Natalie, thank you – so much," Ambrose said. He was actually blinking back tears as he spoke. "You too, Julie," he added.

"You're welcome," Julie murmured, exchanging a happy glance with Natalie.

"Look – look, Adrian! Here's the one I won for the Sony 3600D Combination DVD and VCR player manual," Ambrose said excitedly, handing him one of the handsome wooden plaques.

Adrian actually had to swallow the lump in his throat as he took the award. He'd never seen his brother look happier. He examined the plaque, using his sleeve to polish the shining brass inscription, and handed it back with a smile. "It's beautiful, Ambrose. Well done," he said, managing to keep his voice steady.

Ambrose kept examining his awards as Natalie and Julie exchanged their respective gifts for one another. Natalie had sprung for a new stereo for Julie's car, which sent Julie into spasms of happiness. Julie's gift for her mother was a new purse, and Natalie was thrilled. "It even has an extra pocket for Mr. Monk's wipes," Julie pointed out.

Next, Ambrose handed out his gifts. Julie flew straight to the seventh heaven of delight when she opened a brand-new, state-of-the-art MP3 player. "Oh my gosh!" she squealed, throwing her arms around Ambrose's neck in ecstasies of joy. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she cried, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, Ambrose, you shouldn't have," Natalie protested. "Those things cost several hundred dollars!"

"Not really," Ambrose said, blushing bright red beneath Julie's enthusiastic kisses, but looking pleased. "I wrote the manual so I got that one free. I hope you don't mind… it's not really secondhand, because it's brand-new."

"I don't mind at all," Julie assured him, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Natalie, looking slightly mollified, smiled at him and said, "Thank you, Ambrose, that's very generous." She then opened her own gift, a brand-new DVD player.

"All right!" Julie said happily. "Ours is, like, _ancient_." Natalie, also looking pleased, thanked him.

Adrian's gift was a digital atomic clock, much like the one Ambrose had at home. "It changes automatically with daylight savings time," Ambrose said, causing Natalie to thank him even more effusively than Adrian did.

Natalie, unbeknownst to Adrian, had smuggled over his gift to Ambrose, which was a state-of-the-art dustbuster. Ambrose looked at the instruction manual with interest. "Gordon Blakely," he said approvingly. "He's good. He wrote the manual for my vacuum, too."

Finally, there were only two packages left. "To Natalie, from Adrian Monk; and to Julie, from Adrian Monk," Julie said as she read the tags, and handed one gift to her mother while keeping the other for herself.

Adrian twisted his fingers together nervously while they opened the packages. "Oh, Adrian!" Natalie gasped, forgetting to use the ever-formal "Mr. Monk" in her shock. She had unwrapped a long, slim black velvet jeweler's box, and opened it to reveal a gorgeous, and obviously expensive, diamond necklace.

"Mom, look!" Julie cried, almost simultaneously. She, too, had unwrapped a jeweler's box, and her gift was a flawlessly beautiful pearl necklace.

"I should explain," Adrian said hastily. "Those aren't just from me, they're – they're from Trudy, too."

"From Trudy?" Julie asked, fingering the necklace reverently.

"Yours, Julie – Trudy got that necklace from her parents when she turned sixteen," he explained. "She'd always meant to give it to a daughter someday, if we had a daughter, but we didn't, so… I asked Trudy's mother if she wanted it back, but she told me to keep it, and I thought..."

Julie's eyes filled with tears, making Adrian very uncomfortable, so he hastened on.

"And yours, Natalie," he said, "I bought that to give to Trudy for Christmas, but I never got to give it to her, because…" He stopped, not bothering to elaborate. "I just – it's been sitting in a drawer for twelve years, and I thought – I thought she might want you to have it."

Now Natalie's eyes had filled with tears. Adrian felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach; had he done something wrong? He could be so stupid about these kinds of things. Maybe it was a ghastly faux pas to give your dead wife's jewelry away, even to close friends.

"I hope you don't mind that these were Trudy's," he began haltingly, wishing he'd just left the packages in his coat pocket, "but I – "

Simultaneously, Natalie and Julie threw their arms around him in a long, tight, emotional hug. "Oh, you dear, sweet man," Natalie murmured, letting her tears fall unheeded onto his neck. "You dear, _dear_ sweet man."

Adrian hesitantly put one arm around Natalie and the other around Julie, and awkwardly hugged them back. Over Julie's head, he caught Ambrose's eye; his brother was smiling affectionately at the trio.

"This has seriously been the best Christmas _ever_," Julie said, and this typical teenage comment caused all three adults to laugh. Natalie was laughing through her tears; she had drawn back from Adrian but had kept her arm around his shoulders. Once again, he had to suppress an instinct to slip an arm around her waist, as he'd done with Trudy. What was going on with him?

"I agree with you, Julie," Ambrose said, picking up one of his NSIMW awards. "Where do you think I should hang these, Adrian? The den? I could take down Dad's fishing trophies."

For a moment, Adrian just stared. It was the first time he'd ever heard Ambrose suggesting changing anything at that house, or voluntarily consider the idea of taking down any of their father's things. "Yeah," he said, after exchanging a startled glance with Natalie. "That sounds perfect."

"If you want," Natalie offered, "I could... _we_ could come over and help you hang them."

"That'd be great," Ambrose beamed.

While Ambrose busied himself with shining his already gleaming plaques, and Julie went off to fiddle with her new MP3 player, Natalie suddenly became conscious that she still had her arm around Adrian's shoulders.

Suddenly, she felt his arm go around her waist. Startled, she turned to look at him, and found him gazing at her with that same unfamiliar expression in his eyes that she'd seen earlier. "Natalie," he said, very quietly, "thank you for today."

"Oh, I didn't – " she began.

"Yes, you did," he interrupted. "It's... it's the best Christmas I've had since Trudy died."

Natalie blushed, but she looked down at the jeweler's box she still held in her hand. "Me, too," she said softly. "Since Mitch died, I mean."

His arm tightened around her waist, and he bent his dark head closer. "Natalie," he whispered, "would you – "

But he was interrupted by Julie, who called from the doorway of her room, "Mom, you gotta come here and see this; it's _so cool_!"

Quickly, he dropped his arm as she dropped hers. "Coming," Natalie called in as normal a voice as she could manage, but her cheeks were still flushed rosy red. She gave Adrian one shy, backward glance as she hurried upstairs.

The color had risen in his cheeks, too, and his breathing was slightly labored. _What was_ _going on_? For a minute there, he'd wanted to – if Julie hadn't interrupted, he might have – Adrian shook his head, as if to clear it. "I'm going to go out on the porch, get some air," he told Ambrose, who was still engrossed with his plaques and only half acknowledged him.

Adrian sat on the porch for a long while, thinking. Was it just Christmas that had brought out all these strange feelings toward Natalie? Would they disappear by next morning? Somehow, he didn't think so.

The feelings had been there for a while. How long, he wasn't sure, but they were part of the reason he'd decided to give her Trudy's necklace. Normally, such a thing would have been unconscionable, but for some reason, this year, it hadn't seemed so.

He realized he wanted to see the necklace on her. Wanted to fasten the clasp for her, see her turn around and smile at him, watch the necklace sparkle on her slim white throat as he bent down and kissed her...

He shook his head. _Stop it! _he told himself sternly. Natalie didn't think of him in that way. She was his assistant. His employee. He was her _boss_. She'd never want to kiss her boss., not in a romantic way. Okay, she touched him... a lot. Occasional hugs and slight caresses on his arms and shoulders. She took his arm when they were walking. And he'd gotten used to it, over the years. He never – well, hardly ever – needed a wipe when she touched him.

Even so, she would never want to kiss him. Never. He constantly drove her crazy, never paid her on time, never said thank you or told her she looked nice or gave her a day off. She would never see him as anyone but her quirky, strange, neurotic boss.

And why did that thought depress him?

"Mr. Monk?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Natalie's voice. She was standing at the open front door, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill air. "Are you okay?" she asked, frowning slightly, her face concerned. "Ambrose said you'd been out here a while."

"Y-yeah, I'm fine," he said, striving to keep his voice as normal as possible. "J-just getting some air." And now that he thought about it, he was _freezing_.

Natalie nodded, but looked unconvinced. "Listen, I'm going to take Ambrose home... do you want to come with? I could drop you off at your apartment afterwards."

"Sure," he agreed, glad for an excuse to go home, to be alone and think things through a bit more. "I'll, uh, get my coat."


	3. Chapter 3

Once at home, Adrian paced his hallways restlessly. His thoughts were in a whirl.

Something had _changed_. He'd never had such a tense, awkward ride home with Natalie before. It had seemed like there was something hanging in the air, something both of them recognized but refused to acknowledge. She hadn't said a word to him from Ambrose's house to his, and he hadn't even tried to speak.

Was she angry? How could she be? She'd seemed happy enough today, especially after she'd opened the necklace. They hadn't had any arguments after that; in fact, they'd barely spoken to one another.

Maybe she'd changed her mind about the gift – maybe she thought it was inappropriate. But why not just tell him and give it back? Great detective that he was, he couldn't make any sense out of it.

Finally, exhausted, Adrian stopped pacing and dropped down into an armchair. His gaze fell on the shiny green foil-wrapped package underneath his artificial (in every sense of the word) cardboard Christmas tree.

Slowly, he leaned forward and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. For the thousandth time, he wondered what it was. Trudy hadn't given him any hints that year – the package, when he found it, had been quite a surprise to him. It couldn't be a new watch; at the time, his current watch had been almost brand-new, although he'd teased her about wanting a new one. Trudy never bought him cologne, knowing he preferred to buy his own. It was too small to be any new cleaning supplies. Maybe a Christmas ornament? They'd always had a Christmas tree when she was alive, although usually decorated it symmetrically and systematically with one hundred identical silver and burgundy glass balls. She wouldn't give him one hundred and one; it was totally unlike her.

He was seized, suddenly, with a desire to _know_, to find out what this last gift had been. Before he could second-guess the impulse, his hand moved to the green plaid ribbon and gently began to untie it. He neatly folded the ribbon and gingerly began to remove the wrapping itself. The box was plain white cardboard, taped shut, no markings or store brands of any kind. The lid was taped shut, but the twelve-year-old tape yielded easily under his thumb.

Inside was a nest of white tissue paper, wadded around something hard and rectangular. He unraveled it slowly to reveal... a key. A small, brown key with four numbers – 4510 – engraved on it and nothing else.

"A key," he said aloud, perplexed. A key to what? He cupped the cool metal in his palm and studied it. A key to a safe-deposit box somewhere, he deduced. Was it part of a surprise Trudy had planned for him?

He glanced at his clock. Eleven p.m. Too late to call the captain and get any investigative help in determining where the safe-deposit box might be. Too late to call Natalie as well. It would have to wait until morning.

* * *

"A key?" Captain Leland Stottlemeyer said, dangling the little key in front of him.

Monk nodded, twisting his hands together nervously. "I think it's to a safe-deposit box. Is there a way to find out where it belongs to?"

In response, Stottlemeyer tossed the key to Randy, who caught it deftly. "Randy, check it out," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Randy answered and hurried out the office door.

Stottlemeyer said nothing more until he'd settled into his desk chair and took a sip of coffee. "So," he said, cocking a bushy eyebrow at Monk, "you opened Trudy's gift. What made you decide to do that?"

Monk shrugged, uncomfortable. "I... I just decided to, that's all."

The captain nodded, looking unconvinced. "How was your Christmas?" he asked, including Natalie in his glance.

"Good. It was good," Natalie answered. She looked tired, and for a moment Monk wondered if her night had been as restless as his. She'd barely said a word this morning when he met her at the door and asked to be driven to the police station. "And yours?"

Stottlemeyer smiled. "I had a wonderful Christmas," he said, obviously sincere. "T.K. and I had Jared and Max over for dinner. After we ate, we watched _Die Hard_. It's a tradition." Noting Monk's confused expression, he added, "It's about a cop who visits his family at Christmas, and annihilates some criminals. Good stuff."

"I, um… I'm going to visit the ladies' room," Natalie spoke up, and hurried out the door.

Stottlemeyer turned to Monk, both eyebrows raised now. "Did you two have a fight yesterday, or something?"

"No," Monk answered, almost defensively. "We… we had a nice Christmas." He hunched his shoulders slightly. "Maybe she didn't like my gift."

The captain massaged the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "Monk, you didn't get her a DustBuster again, did you?"

Monk shook his head. "Do you remember the Christmas gift I bought for Trudy the year that she…"

"Yeah," Stottlemeyer said, to prevent him from having to complete the thought. "Yeah, I was with you when you picked it out. A diamond necklace. Really nice."

Monk said nothing, and after a few seconds of silence Stottlemeyer gaped. "You gave it to Natalie?"

He nodded. "And I gave Julie Trudy's pearl necklace."

Stottlemeyer blinked, his mind reeling. "Damn, Monk."

Monk looked even more miserable. "Bad idea? I probably should have asked Dr. Bell first."

"No… no!" The captain shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. "It was a good idea, Monk. A _great_ idea. I'm just surprised that you would – that you could – er – did they like them?"

He shrugged. "They seemed to. They both hugged me… and Natalie called me a 'dear sweet man.'" He smiled slightly, remembering the embrace, and the endearment. "Julie said it was the best Christmas ever. And Ambrose – "

"Wait, what?" Stottlemeyer interrupted. "_Ambrose_ was there? At Natalie's house?"

"Yeah. She invited him over, and he _came_. Can you believe it?" Monk actually chuckled. "I think he even had a good time."

"Huh, you really did have a good Christmas." Stottlemeyer stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "So what's the deal with you guys today, if you didn't fight?"

"I don't know," Monk protested, avoiding the captain's eyes by straightening the cuffs of his shirt nervously. "Things just got… awkward."

"Awkward. I see." Stottlemeyer studied his old friend for a moment, wondering if Monk even realized that how his voice had changed and his eyes had softened when he'd spoken of Natalie's reaction to his gift. "Monk – "

At that moment Randy burst in, Natalie right behind him. Monk straightened instantly.

"I found it," Randy said proudly, thrusting a piece of paper at the captain. "The key is to a box at Starling Bank & Trust."

"Let's go."

* * *

Starling Bank & Trust was a small but tastefully decorated bank in downtown San Francisco. Stottlemeyer corralled the manager, Herbert Sampson, a short, trim man with a bald spot the size of a silver dollar, and explained their errand.

"Captain Stottlemeyer, I can't open the box with the key alone. I must also have the owner's approval," the bank manager objected. "Some form of identification, perhaps, or the original paperwork for the box..."

"Look, we just want to know who it belongs to," the captain said, exasperation in his tone.

"And I can't violate our client's privacy in that manner," the manager returned haughtily.

"Can you tell us how long the box has been rented?" Monk asked, twisting his fingers together anxiously.

The manager considered. "I suppose I can give you that information." He tapped a few keys on his computer and studied the data. "Twelve years."

Monk and Stottlemeyer exchanged glances. "It's been paid every year for the past twelve years?" Stottlemeyer pressed.

"Yes. Currently, a trust in care of an estate is paying for the box. The original renter has not returned to retrieve its contents since the original deposit."

"An estate?" Monk interjected. "The estate of Trudy Monk?"

Puzzled, the bank manager shook his head. "No, I'm not familiar with that name, I'm sorry."

"Look, pal," Stottlemeyer said, crossing his arms across his chest, "We have the key, and there's an excellent chance that whatever is in that box could help in solving a cold case murder investigation. I can get a warrant and bust it open or you can cooperate now. Your choice."

The manager hesitated, bit his lip, then finally nodded. "All right. Since you have a valid key, and since you are an officer of the law, I suppose we can make an exception."

"Thanks, Herb," Stottlemeyer said appreciatively. "I knew you'd see reason. Now, who does the box belong to?"

"It's registered in the name of a Janice Ellingson," Sampson replied. "She died some years ago and her estate has been paying for the box ever since. I – Mr. Monk, are you all right?"

Monk had staggered at the name of Janice Ellingson, and both Natalie and Randy grabbed for him in alarm. "Mr. Monk, sit down!" Natalie cried out, concerned. She crouched the the chair, clinging to his hand. "Do you have any water? Sierra Springs?" she asked Sampson.

"Of course. One moment." He hurried away and came back a few minutes later with a cold bottle. Monk accepted it gratefully and drank. "Janice Ellingson," he croaked. "Don't you remember? Trudy's partner?"

"Right... right," Stottlemeyer murmured. "She died, what, eight years ago?"

"She left some money in a trust to endow a scholarship at Berkeley; that trust must be paying for this box. But why did Trudy have the key?" Monk asked. The color had come back into his cheeks and he stood up. Natalie helped him up and then let go of his hand, relief on her face.

"Let's find out," the captain said. "You okay?"

Monk nodded grimly. "I'm fine."

In the safe-deposit box area, they located the correct box. The manager took the box out of the compartment, set it on a long, low counter, and unlocked it.


	4. Chapter 4

Papers. Typewritten sheets of stark white, scrawling notes on green-lined yellow sheets, faded with age; neatly organized lists and notations on blue-lined sheets torn from a notebook. Yellowed newsprint and old magazine clippings. Stottlemeyer pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began lifting folders from the box.

"Trudy's handwriting," Monk said softly, his eyes scanning the sheets. "All of it."

"Looks like she was using Janice's box," Stottlemeyer said, looking at the label of one of the folders. "Was Trudy doing a story on the military?"

Monk looked blank. "I... if she was, she... she didn't tell me," he said, slowly. "But she sometimes didn't tell me, if a story was hot and she was using confidential sources."

"Makes sense. A lot of CIs wouldn't want to work with a reporter married to a cop, so she probably kept those stories close," Stottlemeyer mused. He scanned one of the papers in the folder she held. "Trudy has some notes in here about an informant in the military named 'Matt.' She ever mention a 'Matt'?"

Again, Monk shook his head.

Stottlemeyer held out the folder to him. "Lots of notes here about military operations in Kosovo."

Natalie had been studying the contents of the box, but at the word her head jerked up. "Kosovo?" she whispered.

Just then, Disher drew something out of the box that caught all of their attention. It was a small cassette tape, generic brand, in a plain container. Monk recognized it as the type of tape Trudy had used in her small handheld tape recorder, the one she'd used for interviews. The label said, simply, "Adrian."

Back at the station, Stottlemeyer removed the tape from its box and gently inserted it into the small tape player he'd unearthed from the bowels of his desk drawer. He pushed "Play" and held his breath, desperately hoping the tape hadn't degraded over time and was still playable.

Disher, Monk, and Natalie all leaned forward at the faint rustling sound that came from the tiny speaker.

"Adrian," came Trudy's voice, clear as a bell. Stottlemeyer breathed out a sigh of relief. "If you're listening to this, I think I know why. I opened this box in Janice's name, using her information; I guess that's technically a crime, but I wanted to be sure it wasn't traceable to me if anyone else came looking. And if you've found it, it means you found the key, too."

Monk closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Twelve years later, he'd finally found the key. His stomach roiled with guilt and sadness.

"I'm working on a story right now, and it's hot. It's really hot. This is huge, Adrian. International. I have an informant in the military who's cooperating with me because he's afraid to go to his superiors; he doesn't know who might be involved. He thinks that if the media break the story, it'll be so out in the open that even they won't be able to hush it up. But Adrian, I'm worried. I've had the oddest feeling that someone's been following me the last few weeks. And we've been getting some hangup calls at home - usually while you've been at work - it's been strange. I wanted to tell you but I swore to my informant that I wouldn't talk to anyone else, not even you. "

As he listened, Monk gripped the table so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes were fixed on the tape player. Natalie made a movement as if to place her hand on his shoulder, but drew back.

"Adrian, I need you to help my informant," Trudy's voice continued. "If they knew I was working on the story, then they must know that he's helping me. He's overseas right now, and he's got a wife and a little girl here in the States. I've been trying to reach him but I can't. I think he's on a mission right now so I don't know if – well, if something happens to me before I can reach him, he might be in danger too. You have to warn him. I don't know how; ask Leland. Maybe he has some military contacts he can trust. I hope it's not too late."

Paper rustled, and Trudy's voice spoke again. "Adrian, I never called him by name in my notes. Too risky. But I'm going to say it here, and hope that this tape doesn't fall into the wrong hands. His name is Lieutenant Commander Mitchell Teeger."

Monk's eyes flew open, and he stared in shock at the slowly-turning spindles of the cassette.

"He's a Navy pilot, in Kosovo. Warn him, tell him he needs to get home and go into hiding with his family, and he'll have to find someone else to break the story. Maybe Janice."

"I love you, Adrian, and I'm so sorry. Tell my parents, too. Goodbye."

Silence. The tape kept playing but there was nothing further but dead air.

"Matt," Natalie whispered into the silence. "Mitchell Aaron Traylor Teeger." She rose, shakily, to her feet.

One look at her bone-white face and Stottlemeyer jumped out of his seat. "Natalie - "

"I have to go," she said, her voice strangled, and bolted from the room as if the devil were on her heels.

"Randy," was all Stottlemeyer had to say, and the lieutenant was in hot pursuit.

"Monk," Stottlemeyer said, putting a hand on his friend's rigid shoulder. He was still staring at the whirling spindles of the cassette, his eyes wide and horror-filled. The captain reached over and pressed the stop button on the machine. "_Monk_," he said, louder.

Adrian jerked as if coming out of a trance. "It's too late," he whispered, turning his gaze to Stottlemeyer. "I didn't find the key - and now it's too late. It's twelve years too late." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh my God, what have I done?"

* * *

Natalie bolted down the hall to a small washroom, nothing more than a closet with a sink and a toilet. She rushed inside, slammed the door shut, and was hideously, violently ill. When her stomach was empty and her throat was raw, she rested her flushed face against the dirty white porcelain of the toilet and struggled to come to terms with what she'd just heard.

The door opened and she felt a strong, warm hand on her shoulder.

"Natalie." Randy Disher knelt next to her, his usually jovial face somber. He wet a paper towel and pressed the cloth against her face. "C'mon, now, come with me. Let's go sit down." He helped her to her feet and led her to a metal bench in the hallway.

"Take me home, Randy, please. Take me home," she begged. "I just want to go home."

Disher hesitated, then took out his cell phone and made a call. "Captain, I'm going to take Natalie home. Can you - " he listened for a few moments. "Okay. Okay. Thanks." Putting the phone back in his pocket, he helped Natalie to her feet. "Give me your keys. I'll take you home."

In the car, she leaned her head against the backrest and closed her eyes. Disher shot her a worried look. "Do you want me to call Julie? Your parents?" Julie, he knew, had left that morning to spend the remainder of her Christmas break from Berkley with the Davenports.

Natalie shook her head. "No - no. Not yet. I don't want them to know until - until there's more to know."

"I can stay, at your house," he offered. "If it'll help."

Natalie smiled, wanly, her eyes still closed. "You're a good friend, Randy, but I just want to be alone for a while."

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, dubiously. She was still white as a sheet, and he could see that her hands, gripping the strap of her purse, were trembling.

"Yeah. I'll be fine. I just need - " She took a deep breath that ended on a chocked sob. "I just need to work thorough this," she managed, her eyes welling with tears.

"Okay," he said, pulling into her driveway. "You need anything, you call me, all right?"

She fumbled for the door handle. "Yeah, yeah. I will. Thanks, Randy." She took the keys he held out and, after giving him a wavery smile, dashed up her front steps.

He watched her let herself into the house, noted that it took her three tries to get the key in the lock. Once she'd closed the door he started the long walk back to the station house.

* * *

"Monk, this wasn't your fault," Sottlemeyer said.

"The hell it wasn't," Adrian retorted, pacing around the small office. He fiddled with the window blind unitl it was perfectly horizontal, straightened the photos on the desk. "If I had found that key – the tape – I could've – "

"You were a _mess_ after Trudy died," the captain said, rising to his feet. His voice had taken on an edge of impatience. "You could barely function. Opening the damn Christmas presents was the last thing on your mind. Trudy should have known that you'd fall to pieces if anything happened to her. She should've - "

Monk whirled. "Don't talk like that about her!" he shouted. "You don't know – you don't - " He broke off, the color rising in his cheeks, and abruptly kicked the desk with such violence that the pictures he had just straightened clattered over.

"Trudy made a mistake," Stottlemeyer said quietly, meeting Monk's furious eyes squarely. "She was a good woman, a great woman, but she made a mistake. She should have trusted you, and me, enough to tell us what was going on so we could help her."

Instead of answering, Adrian leaned against the window ledge, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the window. "I don't know what to do now," he said at length. "I don't know what to do with this. I don't – I don't know how to face Natalie again."

"Natalie understands that you had nothing to do with this."

"Does she?" Monk shook his head. "You saw her face before she went running out of here."

The captain sighed. "I recognized that look," he said, joining Monk at the window and staring at their joint reflections. "I've seen it dozens of times. I see it every time I have to go tell someone that their loved one was killed." He glanced over. "I saw it on your face when I told you about Trudy."

"She has every right to hate me," Adrian said, almost absently. His face was ravaged with grief and guilt.

Stottlemeyer put a hand on Monk's shoulder. "Here's what we're going to do, Monk," he said, speaking quietly and firmly. "We're going to find out who killed Trudy, and we're going to find out who killed Mitch. We're going to get justice for you and for Natalie. Until then we don't have time for self-pity."

Monk pivoted to face him, and for a minute Stottlemeyer thought he might actually take a swing at him. Instead, the detective's spine straightened and his eyes steeled. He took his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a thin white card. Crossing to the captain's desk, he grabbed the phone – not bothering to wipe it off first, Stottlemeyer noted with interest – and dialed a number.

"Hello," he said clearly into the receiver a few seconds later. "This is Adrian Monk. I need to speak to the governor."


	5. Chapter 5

In the fading twilight, Leland Stottlemeyer knocked on Natalie's door. He waited, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. After he'd returned to the station, Randy had told him that Natalie had been in pretty bad shape.

"I didn't want to leave her when she looked like that," Randy had said, frowning worriedly, "but she insisted, and I could tell she just wanted to be alone." He'd shrugged, distractedly worrying his necktie. "I hope she's okay."

Stottlemeyer hoped so, too. Victim notification was one of the worst parts of being a cop, he mused, knocking on the door once again. He enjoyed his work, enjoying standing for the dead and bringing some justice and balance to his little corner of the world, but he always hated having to knock on someone's door and know that he was about to shatter their lives into a million pieces. Natalie's life had already been shattered – twice, if you both counted Mitch's initial death, and the revelation that his death probably hadn't been just a tragic consequence of his military service. At least, right now, he didn't have to shatter her life any further. Maybe the news he had now would help her grief, or at least galvanize her into action, as it had for Monk.

He raised his hand to knock again, resolving to bust the door open if she didn't answer, in case she was too sick to come to the door and needed help. Even as the thought crossed his mind, it opened.

"Hey, Natalie," he greeted, noting with concern her red-rimmed eyes and blotchy complexion. There was a streak of something grayish on her cheek, and he saw the remnants of dried tearstains on her face. "Can I come in?"

She hesitated, but nodded. "Sure."

There were boxes piled in her living room, many of them streaked with dust. A shoebox piled high with worn envelopes was on her coffee table.

"Mitch's things," Natalie said, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "I've been going through them all day, trying to find... to see if there was something, anything, about Trudy. I've read and reread every letter he ever sent me, trying to find if he'd mentioned talking with a reporter. But there's nothing. Nothing at all."

"Mitch was careful," Stottlemeyer said, easing into a chair next to the couch. "He was trying to protect you and Julie."

"What could he have known?" Natalie began to pace, locking and unlocking her fingers. "What could he have known that was worth killing two people over? Why didn't he go to his commanding officer, or the police?"

"I don't know," Stottlemeyer said, rising to gently take her hands in his. "Come on, sit down. You want some tea or something? You look wrecked."

She sighed, dropping on to the couch. "No. Yes. I guess so." She rubbed at her forehead, trying to remember if she'd eaten since breakfast. Her stomach still felt raw and weak, so she doubted it.

"Wait right there," he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later with a thick red ceramic mug of chamomile tea for her, and a glass of ice water for himself. He set the tea on the coffee table in front of her and resumed his seat in the chair opposite.

He waited until she'd sipped, and said, "I came over to tell you what's going on with the investigation." He took a long swig of the cool water. and set the glass on the table with a quiet _thunk_. "Monk called the governor."

Natalie, in mid-sip, choked and sputtered. "He called _who_?"

Stottlemeyer smiled. He'd figured that'd get her attention. "He called the governor. See, he's former military, and Monk thought he might have some contacts that could help grease the wheels, so to speak. Turns out that his uncle is a bigwig in the JAG unit over in San Diego. They're sending out one of their top lawyers. He'll be in my office at ten a.m. Wednesday morning."

"Wait, wait, rewind. Go back." Natalie motioned with one hand while using the other to wipe up spilled tea. "The _governor_ of California talked to Mr. Monk? Personally?"

"Remember the fiasco with Sheriff Rollins and the parade bomb?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

Natalie's hands stilled. "Oh," she said quietly. That hellish week when she'd thought Monk was dead was never one she wanted or tried to remember. "Right."

"The governor told Monk that day to let him know if he ever needed a favor, and gave him his home phone number." The captain shrugged. "So Monk called in his favor. Guess it's a good thing the guy got re-elected, huh?"

"Well, um. Wow." Natalie scrubbed her hands over her face. "Ten o'clock Wednesday morning. That's... the day after tomorrow."

"That's right," Stottlemeyer confirmed. "Also..." he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking pained. "Monk asked me to tell you that if you need some time off, he understands."

She stiffened. "Why doesn't he tell me himself?" Natalie asked, her gaze focused on the contents of her mug.

He sighed, inwardly squirming at the resentment in her voice. She was pissed, and rightly so. "You know him, Natalie. This whole thing has really freaked him out."

Natalie rubbed her temples, suddenly feeling very tired. She _did_ know him, and could imagine very well how he was feeling at the moment. The sight of her, and the realization that Mitch had been involved in Trudy's death, was probably too painful for him to bear. "I don't need time off. I'd just mope around here anyway. I'll do better if I'm distracted."

He started to speak, hesitated, and then said, gently, "Natalie, do you blame Monk for not finding the key sooner?"

She shook her head, but it was a gesture of confusion, not denial. "I don't know. I honestly don't know. I'm still trying to take all this in." She bit her lip, hesitated, then said, "Captain... do you think it's possible that this is just some crazy coincidence? That Mitch really was just a casualty of war?"

Stottlemeyer had been wondering the exact same thing. "I don't know, Natalie. I suppose it's possible, but... well, there's a saying I learned at the police academy. 'Coincidences are hooey.'"

Her lips twitched slightly. "'Hooey.' Is that a technical term?"

"In a manner of speaking." He studied the melting ice in his glass, choosing his next words carefully. "I believe that Mitch's death, occurring so closely in proximity to Trudy's, is suspicious given that they were collaborating on a potentially volatile journalistic investigation. I could be wrong, but..." He trailed off, leaving her to complete the thought on her own.

"You think he _was_ murdered," she finished, flatly, her hands trembling so violently she had to set her cup down before it spilled. She hadn't said it out loud before, and the words seem to hang in the air. "God. Oh, God. How am I going to tell Julie – how am I going to – " Tears spilled down her face.

"It's going to be okay. _You're _going to be okay. You're going to take it one day a time," he said, keeping his voice low and steady. Soothing. "We're going to meet with the JAG guy on Wednesday and we're going to figure all this out. I promise." He handed her a tissue and she used it to mop at her eyes.

"Hey." Natalie looked up, surprised at the depth of caring and concern he'd packed into a single word. He leaned forward and took one of her hands in his, squeezing it softly. "You need anything, _anything_, you call me and T.K., all right? Even if it's 4am and you just need to talk. I mean it."

She smiled, and it felt like the first time she'd smiled in years. "Thank you, Captain. I appreciate it."

He chuckled and shook his head. "You're never gonna call me Leland, are you?"

When she grinned back, he could see the the Natalie he knew underneath the grief and worry. "Nope, not a chance."

* * *

The next morning, she arrived at Monk's apartment promptly at nine a.m., as she always did, and let herself in. Monk, who'd been dusting his already gleaming hallway baseboards with a Swiffer mop, froze at the sight of her.

"Natalie," he said, in obvious surprise. "I thought... I didn't think you'd be here."

"Where else would I be?" she retorted, feeling snappy and peevish after a nearly sleepless night, and the fact that he looked as tired as she did was only small satisfaction. The few snatches of sleep she'd managed had been fraught by an old nightmare of Mitch plummeting to the earth in a fire-wreathed jet. "Have I been fired?"

"No... no, I just thought... that is, I told Leland..." Monk fumbled, feeling a part of himself shrink away from her mutinous expression.

"I know what you told him, but I can't afford time off." Perhaps the jibe was a bit mean, but she was too grumpy to care. "Besides, I'm _fine_," she insisted. "And Ambrose called me an hour ago. He wants us to come over and help him hang his plaques."

"But – " he started to protest, then reconsidered. Ambrose would be a buffer. The alternative was spending the rest of the day in the sole company of a woman who was clearly furious with him. Going to Ambrose's was probably the better option. "Okay, I'll just, uh, get my coat."

The car ride to his brother's house was silent and awkward. Miserably, Monk found himself wondering how long it would be until Natalie resigned as his assistant. It was inevitable, he knew. And how could he bear knowing that he wouldn't see her every day, that he'd no longer be a part of her life, or Julie's? He felt a sharp stab of fear in his gut at the prospect of losing the two women who had, essentially, become his family.

Practically speaking, how would he ever find a replacement who was half as good as she was? All of the women he'd interviewed after Sharona's departure had been out of the question; it was pure chance and good luck that Natalie had entered the picture, a client at first but someone who had proved to be adept, smart, kind, caring, and most importantly, patient beyond all belief with him and his quirks – but willing to stand her ground when the occasion called for it. And persuasive! She'd convinced him to go to Las Vegas, to visit a farm, to make peace with his father, to help a leper, to climb into a magician's box... scores of things he would never have done on his own. He still wasn't quite sure how she managed it. Somehow she just wheedled and pleaded and gazed at him with those soft brown eyes until he found himself doing the unimaginable.

"Mr. Monk!"

Her voice jolted him out of his absorption. "Huh? What?" The car had stopped, he realized.

"We're here," she said, inclining her head at the house.

"Oh... right," he said, opening the car door.

_He was thinking about Trudy_, Natalie thought. She'd recognized that enigmatic half-smile and dreamy expression on his face. What she didn't know was why the fact he'd been thinking of Trudy made her suddenly feel so miserable.

Ambrose met them at the door, bubbling with energy. Despite her black mood, Natalie couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. He'd already pulled down the old fishing trophies, stored them neatly in the attic, washed the wall, spackled the nail holes, _and_ painted over the spackle with fresh white paint. Now the two brothers worked on measuring the plaques, the wall, and the nails to ensure that the plaques would be exactly parallel, equidistant, and other gibberish that caused Natalie to roll her eyes and wander away. They obviously didn't need or want her input.

She found a semi-comfortable chair in the living room and pulled out a book out of the tidy bookshelves, a Reader's Digest condensed collection that was probably older than she was. In fact, the name carefully and precisely penciled on the inside cover was "Arabella Monk." She'd barely read a page before she started nodding off. Soon, she was sound asleep, exhausted after the preceding nearly sleepless night.

Some time later, Adrian wandered in, his brow furrowed in concentration. He knew there was a toolbox in here somewhere – there it was, behind one of the wingback chairs. He went over and retrieved it, but as he started back across the room, his pace slowed as he noticed Natalie curled up in the other chair, an open book resting in her limp hands. She was asleep, the dark shadows under her eyes standing in stark contrast with her pale skin.

He watched her sleep for a moment, feeling a pang of sympathy. He'd been dealing with Trudy's death for twelve years – she'd only had a little more than twelve hours to process what had happened to her husband. Not only that Mitch had, in all probability, been murdered, but that her boss, Adrian Monk, the best detective in the world, could have prevented it.

Had failed to prevent it.

The guilt ate at him as she shifted slightly in the chair, her forehead creasing in worry even as she slept. Should he wake her up? She needed sleep, but if her dreams were troubling then her nap wouldn't be very restful. He debated internally, finally deciding to let her be for now. If her dreams were upsetting they'd wake her soon enough.

He carefully and silently set the toolbox down and reached for a gray fleece blanket that was neatly folded over the back of the chair. In one smooth, swift motion he tucked it around her still form, gently extracting the book from her limp grasp and replacing it back on the bookshelf. Quickly, quietly, he picked up the toolbox and left the room, intending to tell Ambrose that any hammering had to be postponed while she slept.

* * *

Natalie woke with a start after what seemed like only minutes, but her watch showed that it was nearly one in the afternoon. She had a crick in her neck and a stomach rumbling with hunger. Guiltily, she flung the blanket off of her lap, and – the blanket? She stared in confusion at the fuzzy gray fleece, trying to remember if she'd tucked it around herself before falling asleep. Feeling slightly foolish, she folded it and hung it neatly on back of the chair, and then went in search of the Monk brothers.

The den was deserted, but she found Ambrose in the kitchen, eating a bowl of soup. "Hi, Natalie, do you want something to eat?"

"Sure," she replied, going to the cupboard and getting a bowl for herself. "Where's Mr. Monk?"

"He's using the facilities," Ambrose replied, almost primly. Natalie smothered a smile as she ladled soup into her bowl. She wondered if the words _bathroom_ or _toilet_ had ever crossed his lips.

"Did you have a nice nap?" Ambrose asked as she joined him at the kitchen table.

"Yeah, I did," she said, flushing slightly. "Um, thanks for the blanket."

"Blanket?" Ambrose looked confused for a moment, but then his face cleared. "Oh, that must've been Adrian. He went into the living room to find another level. The one we were using was 5/16ths of a millimeter off."

"Oh. I...I could see how that'd be a problem," Natalie said, faltering slightly and trying to hide her surprise."Um... how's the work going?"

"Good," he said cheerfully. "We've calculated the precise and optimal position for each of the plaques and are ready to start hammering in the nails right after lunch."

Natalie suppressed an eye-roll, supposing she should be impressed that it had taken them only three and a half hours to figure out the spacing.

She had just sat at the table when Adrian entered the kitchen. He stopped abruptly in the doorway when he saw her, hesitated for the barest of moments, then nodded at her without a word and crossed to the stove. Despite her long nap, she still looked tired, he thought as he busied himself with ladling his soup and placing the bowl precisely in the center of the plate, retrieving a spoon from the silverware drawer and inspecting it for water spots and other blots. Tired and sad.

The awkwardness that had entered the room with him intensified as he sat at the table. Ambrose, who had been in good humor, looked increasingly uncomfortable. Adrian and Natalie both ate silently, carefully avoiding eye contact. It was a relief when the meal was finished and the dirty dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher. Natalie fairly fled to the den as Ambrose neatly filled the appropriate dispensers with soap and rinsing agent.

"Adrian... is something the matter?" he asked, trying and failing to catch his brother's eye. "Both of you seem rather tense today."

Monk didn't answer for a long moment. "It's complicated," he said finally. "I, uh, I'll tell you about it sometime, but not today."

Ambrose turned on the dishwasher and shrugged. He knew from experience not to push, that Adrian would indeed tell him whatever was bothering him when and only when he was ready.

Once in the den, Ambrose began cautiously pounding nails into the wall under Adrian's close supervision. Each point on the wall had been carefully marked, and Ambrose hammered each nail into the exact center of each precisely-drawn X.

The nails were all placed with surprisingly little difficulty. Ambrose was apparently skilled at this task, and Natalie had to admire his ability to hold the nail steady and drive it into the wall with one smooth stroke, leaving it exactly parallel to the floor. Adrian measured every nail to make sure they were each exposed only one-third inch, and nodded, satisfied, as he measured the last nail. "Perfect," he announced, and Ambrose breathed a sigh of relief.

"Why don't I hang them?" Natalie offered. "You two can stand by the opposite wall and make sure they're straight."

They agreed, and Natalie mounted a small wooden stepladder that looked nearly as old as Ambrose to carefully place each plaque on its corresponding nail. She had just hung the last plaque when, somehow, she slipped on the smooth wood of the stepladder. She gave a quick cry of surprise as both she and the stool began to topple backward.

Adrian was next to her in a flash and caught her before she hit the floor. Reflexively, her arms circled his neck and she held on tight as she regained her footing.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she had steadied herself.

" Yeah, I'm – " She was suddenly, acutely aware that his arms were around her waist, her arms were around his neck, and their faces were mere inches apart. "I-I'm fine," she whispered, feeling suddenly dizzy – whether from the fall or the feel of his arms around her, she didn't know.

Adrian stared at her, hardly daring to breathe. Her face was so close – her soft brown eyes wide, her pink lips slightly parted – all he had to do was angle his head the tiniest bit and his lips would be on hers. As that thought occurred to him, his face flamed crimson and he sucked in a sharp breath. "I – uh – " He released her so abruptly that she nearly stumbled again. She let go of him, and to cover his embarrassment he snatched at the stepladder and snapped it shut. "This thing is a deathtrap," he grumbled.

"You're not hurt, Natalie?" Ambrose asked, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness of the last few seconds.

" No, I'm okay." Her legs were trembling as she dropped down on the couch. God, his face – she'd seen that intense, focused look in his dark eyes before, but only when he was knee-deep in the middle of a "here's what happened" spiel after solving a case. Why had he looked at _her_ like that?

"I think they look pretty good, don't you, Adrian?" Ambrose said, his voice maddeningly cheerful. Adrian took a long moment to try and settle his disjointed emotions before hefting the stepladder and glancing quickly at the wall.

"They look fine," he said, briefly, and returned the ladder to its place in the utility closet.

Natalie's eyes stung as she fought back tears. Despite the curious look in his eyes, he'd dropped her like a hot potato once he'd realized what he was doing. Did she _repulse _him now? He'd always been leery about touching, but not with her. Never with her. She always took his arm when they were walking and he never minded. She gave him hugs sometimes and he was fine with that. Hell, at his birthday party, he'd fed her cake! That small gesture, so thrillingly sweet, had delighted and disarmed her. Had all that changed, now that he knew Mitch had been somehow involved with Trudy's murder?

She had barely managed to get her raging emotions under control when Adrian returned to the room.

"We need to go," he announced, looking at Ambrose and avoiding Natalie's eyes. "I have an appointment with Dr. Bell."

"You do?" she said, confused, but scooped up her purse. "I didn't know - "

"I just called him. He can fit me in at two-thirty. Let's go."

"Well, uh, thanks for the help," Ambrose said, looking bemused but gamely handing Natalie her coat. "Have a good day, Adrian, Natalie."

She smiled at him. He was such a sweet man. He and Adrian were alike in many ways, really. Adrian had the same sweet interior, although he didn't wear it on his sleeve as Ambrose did. "Goodbye, Ambrose. Thanks for lunch." She gave his cheek a quick peck and hurried out the door after Adrian.

Ambrose watched them drive away, a wistful smile on his face, and went back to the den to enjoy his plaques.

* * *

"Now, Adrian, what's the big emergency?" Dr. Bell asked calmly. Adrian seemed unusually agitated, almost distressed. "But before you start – " he held up a finger " – I wanted to let you know that I had a talk with Captain Stottlemeyer this morning. He told me about the progress on you've made on Trudy's murder investigation. Is that what this is about?"

He fidgeted, twitched, picked at invisible lint on his pants. "Sort of. It's related, maybe. It's - " he hesitated. "It's about Natalie," he burst out.

It all came pouring out in a torrent of words. The events of Christmas, her reaction to the contents of the safe deposit box, her irritability that morning, the unexpected embrace this afternoon and the feelings that had accompanied it.

"I don't know what's going on," he concluded. "I don't know what's happening to me or why I'm feeling this way." He paused, and said, hollowly, "I don't know if she hates me."

"Have you asked her?" Dr. Bell asked.

Adrian gaped. "I can't do that! I can't just … _ask_ her like that!"

"Why not?"

"Because… because!" He gestured aimlessly. "What if… what if she says she does?"

"Then at least you'll know for sure, and you can go from there."

He fell silent, mulling this over. As he thought, Dr. Bell spoke up again. "As to these strange emotions toward Natalie that you described, I think it's fairly obvious. You're attracted to her."

He knew it was true, deep down he knew, but he denied it anyway. "That's ridiculous! I – I'm Trudy's husband. She's the only woman I've ever loved – in that way."

"Adrian," Dr. Bell said, quietly but firmly, "Think. Think of the feelings you've just described to me. Did you feel the same way with Trudy?"

"I – " he swallowed, suddenly remembering his wedding day. How he thought he'd burst with love and desire as Trudy came down the aisle toward him. How the ceremony, the reception, the dance all had seemed endless in anticipation of the night ahead. He and Trudy had waited – at her insistence, not necessarily at his, although he hadn't argued against the idea too strenuously. He knew it wouldn't be her first time, though it had been for him, but he hadn't cared. Truth be told, he'd almost welcomed the delay. He'd been so nervous, but she'd been patient, so understanding and gentle and kind.

Like Natalie.

He blew out a breath. "Oh my God." He buried his face in his hands. "I'm attracted to a woman who hates me."

"You don't know that."

"She can't stand to be near me," he said, bitterly. "She doesn't talk to me. She doesn't touch me at all."

"Natalie received some very upsetting news," Dr. Bell said, evenly. "You knew Trudy had been murdered, Adrian. You've always known that. Natalie believed that Mitch's death was a casualty of war, all this time. Learning otherwise is a hard blow, and one that's going to take her a while to process. Just give her some time."

"But it's _my fault_," he insisted. "That's why she's so angry at me. If I'd found the key sooner, then maybe – "

"Adrian, it would be wise to find out how Natalie actually feels before making assumptions," Dr. Bell interrupted. "She's been your friend and your assistant for many years. My guess would be that she knows you would have done what you could if you had known, but you didn't, and that's not entirely your fault."

"Trudy's gift – "

" – wasn't foolproof," Dr. Bell finished. "She took a big chance, and it didn't pan out. The fault isn't yours in that regard. Natalie is a very kind, very fair woman. I'm willing to bet she realizes this. However, you won't know how she feels unless you ask her yourself."

He shook his head. "I don't know if I can. I'm too afraid of the answer."

Dr. Bell put down his notepad and leaned forward, gazing keenly into Adrian's eyes. "Are you more afraid of the answer, or of never knowing how she feels? That's the decision you need to make." He settled back in his chair and checked his watch. "That's about all the time I can spare today. Can you send Natalie in for a minute?"

He jerked in alarm. "You're not going to – "

"Of course not," Dr. Bell reassured him. "What you and I discuss falls under doctor-patient confidentiality, and I would never breach that. I just need to speak with her."

Adrian rose, his face a study of nerves and bafflement, and went out. A minute later Natalie entered the office, looking puzzled. "You wanted to see me, Dr. Bell?"

He gestured toward the chair Adrian had just vacated. "Have a seat." As she settled into the chair, she noticed how tired and drawn she looked, her complexion wan, her cheeks hollow. "I spoke with Captain Stottlemeyer this morning, and he informed me about the recent developments and the new theory about your husband's death." He could see her eyes beginning to tear and hastened on. "It might be a good idea for you to talk to someone. I can give you a referral if you'd prefer another therapist, but if you feel comfortable talking to me, I'd like to offer my services to you, pro bono."

"Pro – " Her eyes watered and her throat thickened. "That's – very kind," she managed. "But why free?"

He smiled kindly, patting her hand. "Call it a... professional courtesy. Don't think I don't realize the large part you play in helping Adrian manage his OCD. I have a feeling he'd be in here every day if he didn't have you by his side to help him cope."

Natalie blushed, both abashed and flattered. She knew she had just received a profound and sincere compliment, and it was a soothing balm on her abraded emotions. "Thank you," she said softly, feeling she should say more but not able to find the words.

"Just make an appointment with my secretary, anytime. If it's easier, I can come to your place." He winked. "But don't tell Adrian about that part."

She laughed, and couldn't believe how good it felt. "All right. I'll be in touch. Thanks again, Dr. Bell."

On the drive back to his apartment, Adrian observed that Natalie seemed calmer, more tranquil. Her expression was serene, and she didn't hold the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. Whatever Dr. Bell had said to her had had a soothing effect on her. His conversation with Dr. Bell, on the other hand, had done nothing to settle his disheveled emotions. Could he really summon the courage to ask her, flat out, if she blamed him for Mitch's death?

When she parked at the curb by his apartment, he put one hand on the door handle, then hesitated. "Natalie?"

"Yes, Mr. Monk?" She looked at him inquisitively.

He fought to bring the words to the surface, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said instead, and left the car.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Stottlemeyer introduced his two friends to a tall man in a blue Navy uniform. "Adrian Monk, Natalie Teeger... I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Keith Gautier, out of the JAG Region Legal Service Office in San Diego."

Monk shook the man's hand, accepted a wipe from Natalie, and studied the officer. Six-three, he judged, late thirties, serious manner. His hair was fair and sprinkled with gray, cropped close to his skull; his eyes were such a pale blue they seemed nearly white. He seemed unfazed by Monk's wipes, meaning he'd probably done his homework and studied up on the people he was meeting with today. That spoke well for this thoroughness.

The five of them – Stottlemeyer, Disher, Monk, Natalie, and Gautier – sat clustered around Stottlemeyer's office coffee table. The captain had opted to keep the meeting confined to his office, as opposed to one of the conference or interview rooms, at Gautier's request, in order to keep the details as much under wraps as possible.

Gautier had set up his laptop and assorted files on the table and was pulling up various electronic files. He had copies of the contents of Trudy's safe-deposit box as well as the open file on her homicide case (Stottlemeyer had overnighted them to the JAG office) stacked neatly next to his computer.

"I've accessed and read all available information on this case," Gautier began, his pale eyes shifting from Disher to Stottlemeyer to Monk to Natalie in turn, "including the open homicide file on Trudy Monk and Commander Teeger's military service record." He paused, pulling a thick manila envelope, stamped CLASSIFIED in bright red letters, from his briefcase. "Before leaving San Diego I asked for and was granted emergency clearance for the four of you. The details I'm about to disclose _cannot_ leave this room for reasons of international security and diplomatic relations. It is _imperative_ that you understand this." He spoke slowly, meeting the eyes of each person in turn.

Natalie's eyes widened and she exchanged a confused glance with Monk, who was equally puzzled. The four of them murmured their assent, and, with a brisk nod, Gautier opened his file folder.

"In March of 1998, a Navy officer at the Pentagon received an anonymous package containing documents that implicated a senior Navy official in a child sex-trafficking operation based in Kosovo. The materials launched an investigation that culminated in the indictment and arrest of that Navy official, as well as several of his accomplices, who were officers under his command." Gautier paused, then looked directly at Monk. "Based on the information given to me by Captain Stottlemeyer, I believe, Mr. Monk, that your wife was working to break this story, and that Lt. Cmdr. Teeger was working with her to that end."

Monk stared at him, incredulous. "Do you... you think that Trudy sent the package to the Pentagon?"

"No," Gautier said. His gaze shifted to Natalie. "I believe Commander Teeger did. The package showed indications that it had been shipped from overseas and had been in transit for a period of several months. We were never able to trace its sender, but some of contents of Mrs. Monk's safe deposit box are nearly identical to several documents contained in that package."

"Mitch got wind of Trudy's death," Stottlemeyer said, his eyes narrowing as his brain put the rest of the story together. "He figured it was related to the story they were working on and guessed that he might be a target too, so he found another way to blow the whistle in case he was right and they went for him."

Gautier nodded, pleased. "That's how it plays for me, yes. My guess is that he mailed the package shortly before his plane was shot down, but the general lag of overseas mail as well as the volatility in that area of the world at that time caused delivery to be delayed for a period of several weeks. This is all speculation, of course, but I believe the package was originally intended to be sent to Trudy Monk as further evidence for her story, but that he changed the recipient once he learned of her murder."

"Wait, just... wait," Natalie interrupted, her eyes wide in alarm. "You don't think that Mitch was any way involved in – "

"No, I do not," Gautier said firmly, and she visibly relaxed. "I believe he somehow became aware of the operation and was attempting to expose it in any way he could. However, given the level of involvement by senior officers, to whom he was subordinate – "

"He didn't know who he could trust," Disher interjected. "He didn't know who all was involved. That's why he didn't go to anyone in the Navy with this."

Gautier inclined his head. "Precisely. As to how Mrs. Monk became involved, or how she came into contact with him, I can't speculate."

"This man... this senior Navy official... do you think he ordered the hit on Trudy?" Monk asked, his fingers clenching into fists.

At this, Gautier hesitated. "I don't believe so," he said. "Although he was heavily involved in the operation, it was overseen and bankrolled by another entity, one whose identity we were never able to definitively ascertain."

"Bastard wouldn't talk?" Stottlemeyer said, his eyes narrowing. "In my experience, slimebags like that would rat on their own mothers to save their skins. He didn't give up his backer to make a deal?"

"He never got the chance," Gautier said, frustration darkening his pale complexion. "He was killed in prison soon after his incarceration. We believe it was a hit arranged from the outside to keep him from talking. With him dead, we were never able to make any further progress on the case." He picked up the folder that held his copies of the materials from Trudy's safe deposit box. "Until now."

Monk leaned forward, his dark eyes so intense they were fairly burning. "Trudy knew the identity of the backer."

"She had no hard evidence, but based on her research I'm fairly sure she had strong suspicions to that end," Gautier confirmed. "Given her data, combined with what was included in the package the Pentagon received, as well as the investigative research complied by the team who initially worked the case, the evidence does point to a corporation headed by a certain individual – someone who was a prime suspect at the time, but whose guilt could never be proven." He opened his classified file and took out a photo, which he placed on the table in front of Monk.

Monk instantly recognized the corpulent figure sneering out of the photograph. "Dale the Whale," he hissed.

"Biederbeck!" Stottlemeyer exploded, pounding a fist on the table. "I knew that no-good lousy snake was involved with Trudy's death; I _knew_ it."

Disher and Stottlemeyer exchanged looks of frustrated satisfaction, but Monk's attention was turned elsewhere. "Natalie," he said, half rising from his seat, "what is it?"

Natalie's gaze was focused on the table, her brows were furrowed as though she was trying to dredge up a long-forgotten memory. "He talked about Mitch," she murmured, her face clearing.

She looked up, and her gaze pinned Monk's. "He talked about Mitch," she repeated, her voice rising. "Biederbeck did. When I went to see him in prison, he brought him up, almost right away." She rubbed her temples, frustration eking through. "Oh, God, what did he _say_? I can't remember!"

"I do. I remember that video." Monk concentrated, bringing up the memory of the tape he had watched and listened to when Natalie had returned from her visit with Dale. "He said, 'Remember the day you got the news about Mitch? That's where I live.' When you asked him how he knew about Mitch, he said, 'You work for Adrian Monk, Natalie, that makes you and your family my business.'"

Gaudier glanced from one to the other, impressed in spite of himself. He'd read about Monk's astonishing memory retention, but to see it in action was something else entirely. "Is this tape in evidence?"

"It should be. Randy, go get the Rollins file," Stottlemeyer ordered, and Randy darted out the door.

"He was lying," Monk said grimly. "When he said he knew about Mitch because Natalie worked for me, _he was lying._ He knew about Mitch long before Natalie and I ever met."

"What a kick in the teeth that must have been when Natalie started working for you," Stottlemeyer mused. "The bastard must've been panicked that the connection would be made."

"So he tried to frame me for murder and get himself out of jail at the same time," Monk agreed. "Only things didn't work out as he planned."

"Look, I get that Biederbeck is powerful, but how did he arrange to get my husband's plane _shot down_?" Natalie demanded. "Does he have Serbian terrorists in his pocket, too?"

Gautier spoke up at this juncture. "I don't believe Biederbeck was responsible for Commander Teeger's plane going down." Before he could elaborate, Disher re-entered the room at the moment and handed a fat file along with an evidence bag containing a videotape to Gautier.

Natalie paled. "Then... you think his death was just a coincidence?" She shot a glance at Stottlemeyer, who frowned in response.

"No, I don't," Gautier said, unperturbed. "I think _his plane going down_ was a coincidence." He pulled up some notes on his computer. "Yesterday, I had my assistants searching for any and all possible connections between Dale Beiderbeck, Trudy Monk, and Commander Teeger." He turned his laptop around so that Natalie could see the screen, on which there was a split screen with the captioned photos of two Navy officers.

"Dougal, Wallace M.," Monk read aloud. "Embry, Thomas L."

"Wally," Natalie murmured, remembering letters from Mitch that she had just re-read a few days before. "Wally and Tom. They were his friends."

"They were his co-pilots," Gautier said. His tone was gentle, as though he wanted to soften the coming blow. "Lieutenant j.g. Dougal and Ensign Embry were in the plane with Commander Teeger when they were shot down. All three survived the crash."

"Wait, they _survived_ the crash?" Disher interrupted. "All three? Even Mitch?"

Gautier's eyes stayed fixed on Natalie's. "I assume you've never told anyone the circumstances of your husband's death?" His tone was understanding, kind, and for that Monk was grateful to him.

"I've only told Mr. Monk," she said, her throat dry, her eyes burning. Without a word, Stottlemeyer retrieved a bottle of water from his office mini-fridge and handed it to her. She accepted gratefully and gulped it down.

On impulse, Monk reached over and grasped her hand. It was cold and clammy, but he didn't let go. He didn't say a word, but his dark eyes were rich with understanding, and sympathy. She clutched his hand as though it were a lifeline.

"The official Navy record states that Lieutenant Commander Teeger was shot by enemy forces while fleeing the crash site with the team's radio and supplies," Gautier said, his tone calm and dispassionate. "This is based on the statements of Lieutenant Dougal and Ensign Embry, who were summarily recovered after several days. The Navy couldn't prove their statements but also couldn't discount them."

"But?" Stottlemeyer said, reading into Gautier's expression.

"But..." Gautier pulled his laptop to him again and tapped a few keys, bringing up a mug shot that replaced Embry's photo. He turned the computer again. "My team found this connection."

Monk stared, uncomprehending, at the mug shot he knew all too well. "Frank Nunn? I don't understand."

"Dougal's mother's maiden name was Marietta Nunn," Gautier said. "Frank Nunn and Wallace Dougal were first cousins."

"Coincidences are hooey," Stottlemeyer muttered.

* * *

Natalie asked for a break. When Gautier agreed, she fled to her car, where she could lock the doors, hide behind the tinted windows, and have a little privacy. Monk started to follow but Stottlemeyer stopped him with a hand to his elbow. "Let her be for a little while," he said quietly.

Disher and Gautier had gone out to order lunch, so Monk and Stottlemeyer were alone in his office. Monk rubbed his hands over his face, his thoughts whirling. "This whole situation is almost too outlandish to believe."

Stottlemeyer chuckled at this, leaning against his desk and folding his arms. "Monk, given the number of bizarre cases you've solved, this kind of thing should be old hat by now."

He scowled. "I always knew Dale the Whale was involved in Trudy's death. He just seemed to know too damn much." He curled his fingers into a fist and rammed it against the palm of his other hand. "I just couldn't _prove_ it."

"Now we can," Stottlemeyer said.

Monk paced the room restlessly. "Will it make a difference?" he asked, staring out the window. He couldn't see Natalie's car, but he knew she was probably in there, sobbing her heart out. He yearned to go to her, to comfort her. "Dale's already in for a life sentence. He's lost all his privileges, all his influence. What's another charge or two?"

"It matters." Stottlemeyer stood in front of Monk to end his pacing, forcing the other man to look him directly in the eye. "It matters because it's _justice_ for Trudy, and for Mitch, and knowing that the person responsible for their deaths is behind bars for the rest of his miserable life. It matters because Dale will know that you're free – free and _happy – _even though he struck at you in the worst way possible."

"Free, maybe, but happy?" Monk shook his head, his eyes wandering once again to the window. "I don't think so." He returned to the couch and sank down, leaning his head back against the vinyl cushion and closing his eyes.

Stottlemeyer sat next to him. "Are you ever going to tell her?"

Monk cracked an eye open, irritation flashing across his features. "Tell who what?"

"Tell Natalie how you feel about her."

He sat up ramrod-straight, both eyes wide and incredulous. "How did you know – " He cut himself off abruptly.

Stottlemeyer grinned. "I didn't, not for sure. Until now." His grin faded as Monk continued to stare at him in annoyance. "Look, Monk, when you were talking about her in my office the other day, you had the same look on your face, the same inflection in your voice, that you have when you talk about Trudy. And you gave her Trudy's necklace for Christmas. I put two and two together."

"Aren't you the math genius," Monk muttered. "And no, I'm _not_ going to tell Natalie anything, because the _last_ thing I need right now is to find another assistant when she runs screaming in the other direction."

Stottlemeyer popped open a can of soda – wishing it was a cold beer – and drank deeply. "What makes you think she'd do that?"

Monk stared at him. "Because – because I'm _me_."

"That didn't matter to Trudy."

"That's different," he objected. "Trudy was... special."

"And Natalie's not?"

"I didn't say that." He accepted a bottle of Sierra Springs that Leland tossed to him and brooded over it.

"Listen, buddy, Natalie's stuck by your side through thick and thin for seven years now," Stottlemeyer pointed out. "She wouldn't do that – _nobody_ would do that – for someone she didn't deeply care about, especially given the salary you pay her."

Monk scowled at him. "We're just _friends_ – "

"Yeah, you're friends. But you listen to me." Stottlemeyer's voice was calm, but very firm. He pointed a finger at Monk. "When all that shit went down with Sheriff Rollins and she thought you were dead, she was _devastated_. Why do you think she went to find you the minute she knew you were alive? When you got shot by John Kuramoto, she was a wreck and very nearly killed herself trying to make it up to you. Then she went out of her way to throw you a really nice birthday party so you would know how much you were loved. And Christmas? She invited your brother and convinced him to come to her house because she wanted to give you a real family Christmas for the first time in your life, and it sounds like she did a damn good job of it. I'm telling you, Monk, that's more than friendship, or a nicey-nice employer-employee relationship."

Monk absorbed what Stottlemeyer was telling him. "But... if you're right... why hasn't _she_ said anything?"

He snorted a laugh. "Probably because she's afraid you'd run screaming in the other direction."

Before he could respond, Disher and Gautier came in loaded down with submarine sandwiches, chips, and cookies. Natalie followed behind them, Randy having called her cell phone to let her know that lunch had arrived.

Monk watched her, concern etched on his face. She was drawn and pale. He didn't see any evidence of tearstains on her cheeks, but it's possible she'd washed her face before coming back in. Still, the events of the past few days were clearly taking their toll.

Automatically, she fixed him a plate, making sure his sandwich, ten chips, and a single, perfectly round cookie were neatly spaced on the plate, not touching, and brought it to him. He started guiltily when she handed it to him, as he hadn't realized she'd been getting food for him as well as for herself. "Thanks," he said, as she sat next to him with her own plate.

She didn't eat, not really, he observed during the course of the meal, as Disher, Gautier, and Stottlemeyer discussed baseball scores. She mostly just pushed food around her plate, nibbling on bread here and there. He couldn't help speaking up.

"You should eat," he told her, quietly.

She looked up, startled, but merely shrugged. "I'm not really hungry."

"You need to keep your strength up," he countered. When she just shook her head, he laid his hand on her arm. "Please," he said, keeping the pressure on her arm gentle. "For me."

She looked surprised at this, but nodded and took a bite of her sandwich. "There, happy now?" she asked after she'd chewed and swallowed, a teasing glint in her eye.

Monk's heart gave a leap. There was the old Natalie, who smiled and teased and gave him affectionate pats and touches. "Yeah, I am," he said, smiling at her in return. "And if you eat the rest, I'll give you a raise."

"_Really_?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting.

"No." He winked at her, and she laughed. And took another bite of her sandwich.

She ate the entire thing, plus her chips and a cookie. When she was done, there was a little color in her cheeks and she didn't look quite so haggard.

Monk was relieved, and Stottlemeyer gave him a subtle, approving nod behind Natalie's back. It was good to see him taking care of her for a change.

Lieutenant Gautier excused himself when his cell phone rang, and he had a quiet discussion on the other side of the room. When he hung up and returned to the table, his expression was perturbed. "Wally Dougal's last known address was Dallas, Texas. We sent someone from Dallas JAG over to pick him up for questioning, but Dougal wasn't there. The landlord said he left several months ago, without paying his last month's rent. They're questioning friends and associates but there's no trace of him so far. I've authorized my people to apply for a warrant to search financial records, credit cards, and so forth for an idea of where he's gone but that'll take some time to come through."

"What if he left the country?" Natalie asked, visibly upset. "If he did that, then he's gone for good, isn't he?"

Gautier hesitated. "It depends on where he is, and if we have an extradition treaty with that country. It also depends on if we can convince a judge that we have enough evidence to formally charge him with Lieutenant Teeger's death. Right now the evidence we have is largely circumstantial."

"What about family?" Monk asked. "Could he be staying with his mother, or another relative?"

"That's an avenue we're pursuing," Gautier acknowledged. "He's an only child and his mother is dead, no father on record. But he has an ex-girlfriend and a son up in Sacramento, and I have officers on the way to question her now."

Natalie's shoulders slumped. "So all we can do is wait."

"Essentially, yes," Gautier said, keeping his voice as kind and soothing as possible. "But I assure you we're doing everything in our power to find him."

"What about Dale the Whale?" Monk asked. "I could go question him."

"You will _not_," Stottlemeyer said abruptly. "That man is toxic sludge, but he's a pro. He won't say anything to incriminate himself and add another life sentence on to what he's got. He'll lawyer up at the first opportunity and all he'll succeed in doing is being an asshole to you."

Monk shrugged. "Just seeing me outside of the bars while he's inside makes him angry. He could get so angry that he'll let something slip."

"I agree with the captain," Gautier said. "Our best bet at this point is finding Dougal and getting him to flip on Biederbeck. If we have no luck finding Dougal we'll start thinking of a new strategy, but we need to exhaust this avenue of investigation first."

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Natalie asked.

The captain patted Natalie's hand. "What you can do is go home, get some rest," he said. "I promise I'll call you right away if anything breaks on this."

"But I - " she began to object.

"Natalie," Stottlemeyer said, his voice going stern. "There's nothing you can do right now, not until we get more information, and that could take a while. You look whipped. Go home, get some rest, and please don't force me to make it an order."

She looked ready to fight him on it, but Monk touched her shoulder. "He's right," he said quietly, when she turned to glare at him. His gaze was calm and even, and after a few moments her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"All right, fine," she said with a sigh. "But you call me right away if there's anything more."

"I promise," he said, and watched as she and Monk left the squad room.

"Are they an item?" Gautier asked curiously, once they had left.

Stottlemeyer shook his head. "Not yet," he said, and sat down at his desk to begin more research on Wally Dougal.


	7. Chapter 7

The drive to Monk's house was absolutely silent. Monk glanced worriedly at Natalie from time to time; she was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her face was mutinous and she kept her eyes fixed on the road, ignoring him.

When they pulled up outside of his apartment, he made no move to get out, but she didn't seem to notice. She shut off the car, turned off the headlights, unsnapped her seat belt, but then just stared straight ahead, her face contorted with misery. After a long minute, her hands relaxed their grip on the steering wheel and she leaned her forehead against its top.

She didn't cry – perhaps she was out of tears – but just sat with her head resting against the steering wheel. He thought of what Dr. Bell had said the other day, and gathered his courage. The awkwardness between them was a complication they didn't need when circumstances were already difficult enough.

"Natalie," he said aloud, but she didn't stir. He wasn't sure if she was ignoring him or if she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to have heard him. "Natalie," he said again, louder this time.

She started, her head jerking up in alarm. "Huh? What?" She hadn't realized he was still in the car, or that he was sitting there studying her with dark eyes full of sorrow.

"I'm sorry I failed you," he said quietly, so quietly she had to strain to hear him even in the relative silence of the car.

She seemed genuinely puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry I didn't open Trudy's gift right away," he elaborated, turning his head to look out the windshield at the somber gray clouds hanging heavy in the sky. "If I had... maybe Mitch would still be alive. It's my fault he died, and -"

"Stop it." Her voice slashed like a knife, chill and sharp. "Did you shoot down his plane?"

He stared. He'd seen Natalie angry before, but never like this. She was _supremely_ pissed, her face set in mutinous lines and her eyes flashing. He half expected lightning to shoot out of them. "No, but -"

"Did you order a hit on him?" she demanded. "Did you hire his own crewmates to kill him?"

"No, but I -" he tried, but she cut him off.

"Then how is this in any way your fault?" She pounded the steering wheel with the palm of her hand for emphasis. "What, you should have been Psychic Cop? Even if Trudy would have gone you with everything she had, there's no way of knowing if either of you could have gotten any message to him or accomplished anything positive. Maybe if you had succeeded in warning him, it would have tipped off the criminals and they would have escaped prosecution." She'd lain awake nearly all the preceding night circling around this very conclusion.

Monk tried again. "I thought that – "

She cut him off again. "As far as I'm concerned, Mitch died serving his country. Both he and I knew it was a possibility. _Maybe_ his death could have been prevented, I don't know. But the fact is that he's dead and the only ones to blame are the ones who ordered the hit and held the murder weapon. Not me, not Trudy, and definitely not _you_. Do I make myself clear, Adrian Monk?"

If he'd had a middle name, he thought, she would have used it. As it was, he nodded meekly, simultaneously abashed but strangely fascinated by this new side of Natalie.

"So you don't hate me?" he ventured hopefully.

She gaped at him. "Of course not!" She sighed, rubbing her throbbing temples. "Maybe that's what I should be asking you."

His brows furrowed, then cleared. He actually looked _offended_. "Do you think that _I _hate _you_?"

She shrugged, her shoulders sagging dejectedly now that her flash of temper was spent. "Maybe you don't hate me, but my husband is the reason your wife was killed. I wouldn't blame you for not wanting the reminder around you every day."

Now he was the one who was supremely pissed. "Didn't you just get done telling me that the only ones responsible for Mitch's death were the ones who ordered the hit and handled the weapon? Well, the same principle applies here. The only ones responsible for Trudy's death are the ones who ordered the hit and placed the bomb. Mitch was a _hero_ and Trudy was just doing her _job_."

She sniffed, and he could tell she was on the verge of tears again. "But I'm still a reminder of what happened to her."

"_Everything_ is," he replied, feeling suddenly very, very tired. "The first three years after she died were a nightmare. I could barely survive because everything around me was a reminder she was gone. I wanted to die, too. I think the only reason I didn't commit suicide was because I knew Trudy would have wanted me to live, but I didn't know how. I just – existed, for the longest time."

Natalie listened, hardly daring to breathe. He so very rarely talked about the weeks and months following Trudy's death.

His voice softened. "Then Sharona came, and she brought me out of that... that morass of grief and helplessness and taught me how to function again. And then _you_ came." He turned his head to look at her, and she saw he was smiling. "I knew how to function, but you taught me how to _live_. I can never thank you enough for what you've done for me – for what you do for me, every day – and I can't imagine not having you around, because you remind me about how important it is to live."

She couldn't stop the tears from falling, but this time they weren't tears of grief or sadness. She tried to speak, but couldn't say anything through the lump in her throat.

He studied her tear-streaked face and tired eyes in concern. "Come on, let's go inside."

She swallowed, and found she could speak again. "I should go home – " she began, but stopped when he shook his head firmly.

"No, I don't think you should be alone right now. Come inside, we'll – we'll do something relaxing."

Her mouth quirked up slightly. "What, re-organize your sock drawer?"

He considered this, then shook his head. "Relaxing for _you_. We'll, um... we'll watch one of those sappy Christmas movies you like so much," he finished, inspired. "I have all of Trudy's collection still."

She drew back, surprised. "Really?"

"Sure," he said, opening his door and squinting at the sky. Dark clouds hovered threateningly overhead, and he was sure they'd get a downpour before evening. "Let's get inside before the rain starts."

Once inside, he insisted that she pick out a movie while he prepared a snack. By the time she had the tape of _It's a Wonderful Life_ queued up and ready to play in his ancient VCR, he appeared in the living room with two plates, ten square crackers and ten perfectly square pieces of cheddar cheese meticulously arranged on each. He set these on the coffee table in front of the couch and disappeared back into the kitchen, returning with two glasses of red wine.

"_You're_ having wine?" Natalie said, staring. She hadn't known there was even a bottle in the house.

"It's been that kind of day," he said, arranging the wine glasses on coasters, and spacing them evenly on the table. He noted her confused expression and shrugged. "Marge sent me a wine basket from Seattle for Christmas. I just stuck the wine in the refrigerator until I could figure out what to do with it." He didn't add that she had expressly directed him to share the bottle with "someone special."

"Oh," was all she could think to say. She had to admit, the prospect of a soothing glass of wine _was_ very appealing at the moment. "That was nice of her."

"I thought so," he agreed as they seated themselves on the couch. Natalie, her feet curled under her, started the movie, and they both settled back to watch Clarence earn his wings.

It _was_ relaxing, she thought, as she sipped the excellent wine – Marge apparently had good taste in vintages – and nibbled on cheese and crackers. In fact, a little _too_ relaxing. Several times she found her eyelids drooping and had to shift position on the couch to wake herself up a little bit – although she'd seen the movie a hundred times, she didn't want to miss any of it.

Gradually, however, her fatigue from the past few near-sleepless nights, combined with the effects of the wine, got the better of her and her head began to nod. She wasn't quite awake when she felt a strong arm gently slip around her shoulders and pull her close so that her head rested against his chest. Instinctively, she snuggled into the warm embrace and fell more deeply into sleep.

Adrian watched the movie for a while, enjoying the feel of her soft, warm body against his – and marveling at the same time that he could enjoy it without half-a-dozen phobias crowding his brain. For a minute, it almost felt like he was back with Trudy, cuddling on the couch and watching TV. Only it wasn't Trudy – but it felt just as good as it had with her.

He tried not to move so he wouldn't disturb her slumber, but the wine was getting to him, too. Eventually, he dozed, his cheek resting on the top of her head. When he suddenly jerked awake the TV screen emitted a soft blue glow instead of the movie, and the sky outside was pitch black. He could hear raindrops beating against the windows.

She was still sleeping peacefully, her head nestled on this chest. He checked his watch and was surprised to see it was seven-thirty in the evening. They'd been napping for hours. Well, he supposed they both needed the extra rest, given their recent wakeful nights.

He wondered momentarily what had woken him, but then the thunder crashed outside and he convulsively gripped Natalie tighter. The movement woke her up, and she too clutched at him as her head came up and she gazed blankly around the room. "Wha-what's that?".

"Just thunder," he said, rubbing her back in a soothing gesture. "The storm moved in."

"Oh." She blinked several times and her gaze focused on the TV screen. "Is the movie over?"

Amused, he said, "It's seven-thirty at night. What do you think?"

"Seven-thirty?" She tried to get up and only then seemed to realize that his arm was around her waist, and she was cuddled up against his body. "I should get home – I – "

"You shouldn't drive in that weather, it's not safe," he objected. He wasn't sure why he found her groggy confusion so endearing, but he did. He couldn't help smiling at her. "Stay here tonight."

Something in his tone, a suggestive note she'd never heard before, had her cheeks flushing crimson and she looked down, away from his teasing smile and suddenly intense eyes. His hand softly brushed her cheek, then this fingers gently moved under her chin and tilted her face up to his. He leaned in, his lips mere inches from hers...

… and the phone rang loudly, jolting them apart.

"Damn it," he cursed aloud, and snatched the cordless phone from its cradle. Natalie sat upright, the blush still mottling her cheeks, her brain trying to make sense of what had just – almost – happened. Her heart was beating crazily and she took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

Monk put one hand over the receiver. "It's Leland," he said to Natalie, and the words snapped her back to reality.

She grabbed the phone from him and put it on speaker mode. "We're both here. What's happening?" she asked.

"The warrant came through for Dougal's financials. Not much going on there and no hits within the last month or so. He's got an open warrant on him in Dallas, dealing and possession of heroin, so likely he skipped town with the cash profits of his last deal and is staying off the grid, or using an assumed name with new accounts elsewhere. A couple JAG officers went over to his ex-girlfriend's place in Sacramento, but she swears she hasn't heard from him in months. Officers said she seemed little cagey, though, so they're going to talk to her again tomorrow, and in the meantime they've got a guy sitting on her place in case Dougal shows up there."

Natalie plopped down on the couch, frustration etched on her face. Monk stood, pacing the room, as the Captain continued.

"We found out Embry was killed in a vehicular accident – drunk driving – a few years back so that line's a bust. Officers out in Reno, his hometown, are talking to family but none of them have seen or heard of Dougal since the funeral. We've also notified the prison to keep tabs on Beiderbeck's visitors and communications and to notify us immediately and then stall if anybody gets in touch – so don't bother going there yourselves to question him as you won't get through." Natalie rolled her eyes, as that very idea had occurred to her. Monk scowled; evidently, he'd had the same idea.

"Randy and I are heading home to get some sleep. Gautier's at the Days Inn near the station house. We'll be back at it early tomorrow morning. I promise I'll call you if anything breaks," Stottlemeyer concluded.

"Or maybe you shouldn't," Monk muttered under his breath, thinking of what this particular phone call had interrupted.

"What was that?"

"Never mind," Monk said hastily. "Thanks for the update." He punched the "off" button rather savagely.

"Do you'll think they'll be able to find Dougal?" Natalie asked, twisting her fingers together nervously.

"I don't know. If he's using an assumed name, it could be difficult," Monk said, frowning, as he replaced the phone in the cradle and made sure the cradle was centered on the table. "And we have no idea if he's even still in the country or, if he is, what state he's in. Still, keeping tabs on his ex and their son is a good idea; they're his most important ties to the area. Chances are, if he had to go on the run, he'd go there at least occasionally."

"So what do we do now?" she said, biting her lower lip.

"Hurry up and wait," he said gloomily. "That's often the nature of police work." He glanced at the TV, still glowing blue. "Want to watch another movie? We still have most of that bottle of wine left."

She considered, glanced out the window where raindrops were still falling steadily, and shrugged. "Why the hell not?" Her cheeks pinked slightly. "Considering I'm staying here tonight and all."

He actually grinned at her with a roguish glint in his eye. "This time, I get to pick."

He chose _A Christmas Carol_ (the 1984 version starring George C. Scott, one of his personal favorites) and washed and sterilized their wineglasses before refilling them as Natalie fixed more plates of crackers and cheese.

She had the video queued and ready when he came in with the refilled wineglasses. He sat down, picked up his glass, and casually as you please reached over and slung his arm around her waist, drawing her body closer to his. She said nothing, only raised an eyebrow, to which he replied with another roguish grin.

_Why the hell not?_ she thought, and snuggled into him.

She wondered if he'd try to kiss her again, but he didn't – which was, in a way, a bit of a relief. She was still trying to figure out how she felt about becoming romantically involved with Adrian Monk, not to mention her boss. Still... she had to admit she was a little disappointed that he didn't make another move. _She_ wasn't going to make one – if anything happened between them she wanted to be absolutely sure that it was _his_ idea. It made things slightly less complicated that way. And the fact that she was thinking these things at all still amazed her. Only a week ago their relationship had been as it always was, but something indiscernible had changed drastically since then.

The movie ended and they popped in another. They polished off the bottle of wine between the two of them, as well as the rest of the cheese and crackers. By the time the ending credits of _A Christmas Story_ were playing, Natalie was starting to yawn again.

"I guess I'll bunk on the couch tonight," she said, standing and stretching.

He started to say something, hesitated, then offered, "If you'll be more comfortable, I can take the couch."

She shook her head. "No offense, but it'd be too weird sleeping in your room."

He looked faintly disgruntled at that remark, for whatever reason, but let it go. He cleaned up the glasses, washing and sterilizing them once more, and did a quick sweep and vacuum on the floor and couch to catch any stray crumbs. By the time he was finished, she'd changed into the spare pair of pajamas she kept there (along with a few changes of clothes, just in case) and had retrieved an extra pillow and blanket from the linen closet.

He stowed the broom and vacuum away as she made a makeshift bed, then stood awkwardly in the doorway between the hall and living room. "Well... good night," he said.

"Good night," she replied.

He flipped off the lights and headed down the hallway to his bedroom, cursing himself for not attempting a good-night kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Why the spate of new chapters after over a year? I have no idea. I just woke up one morning with the urge to write more Monk. Maybe I'll finish this thing yet!**_

About ninety miles north of Monk and Natalie, a woman dug around in her closet, unearthed a carefully-hidden prepaid disposable cell phone, and placed a call to the only number in memory.

"Wally, it's Gina," she whispered. Her son was asleep in the next room.

"Hey, babe, what's up?"

"What the hell is going on? I had some JAG officers here asking about you today. Are you in trouble?"

"JAG?" The male voice was alarmed and nervous. "What about? Did they say?"

"They were asking questions about some guy you used to serve with overseas. Stieger? Something like that."

There was a long pause. "Teeger? Mitch Teeger?"

"Yeah, yeah, that was it. They wanted to know where you were, Wally. Seemed real suspicious when I said I didn't know. I think they're watching the place."

"Shit. Oh, shit." She could hear him scrambling around. "Listen, Gina, do me a favor. Don't tell them anything. I might need to head south to Mexico. I gotta check on something first. I'll send money for Ty when I can, okay?"

"Mexico? Wally, what's going on? What are you going to do?"

"I'm gonna go snoop around in San Francisco. Mitch's widow lives there and I gotta find out what they know, why they're asking about him. If it's bad, I'll head south of the border. I'll call when I can. Don't tell them anything, Gina, you got me?"

"Okay, Wally, but – " The connection cut off abruptly. Gina carefully put the phone back in its hiding place and crept out of the room.

* * *

The scream woke Monk at just before 3am. He tore off the covers, dove out of bed – nearly tripping over his slippers – and dashed down the hall to the living room.

She was flailing on the narrow couch, the blanket in a heap on the floor. She didn't seem to be hurt, or sick, and her eyes were still closed – a nightmare, he deduced instantly. She shrieked, "Mitch!" and nearly fell to the floor.

He rushed over and gathered her into his arms, trying to gently waken her. "Natalie, it's just a dream. Wake up," he said, gently but firmly, cradling her against his chest and holding her flailing arms still. "Wake up, Natalie!"

She did, suddenly, with a choke and a cry. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest and rocked her in his arms, making shushing noises, as she flung her arms around his neck and gasped for air. "Mitch... his plane..." she sobbed, nearly hyperventilating. "Fire... burning him alive... and he was screaming... oh God."

"Shhh," he soothed, rubbing her back and feeling her tremble against him. "It wasn't real. It was just a dream." He was rambling, hardly paying attention to his own words, saying whatever came to mind. "I'm here. It's all right. Hush now, sweetheart."

She was shaking violently still. He half laid her on the couch so he could stand, then scooped her up into his arms – God, she was so small and light – and carried her into his room. He laid her her in the bed and drew the warm down comforter around her. "I'll be right back," he said, and returned in a few minutes with a small glass of amber liquid. Scotch, she guessed from the smell, that the mayor had given him again.

She tossed it back and felt the false heat of the alcohol flood her body. He held her, rocking slightly, letting the warmth of his body and the soft blanket warm her as well. The shivering died down to an occasional shudder and the rapid pounding of her heart slowed as she matched her breathing to his.

God – God, that had been bad. The worst one yet. But this was the first nightmare where she'd had someone to tend to her in the aftermath, where she hadn't woken up cold and alone, sometimes with a bruise or two due to falling out of bed, and forced to wait out the violent shivering and near-hyperventilation by herself.

"Don't leave me," she begged, her voice slurring in exhaustion, her eyelids drooping. She was half-asleep already, but didn't want to let go of the comforting warmth of his body.

"Never," he promised, but wasn't sure if she'd heard him. He slipped under the covers ad held her tight against him. "Never," he vowed again, kissing the top of her head. After a while, he drifted off to sleep.

The sun was shining through the windows when he woke again. His digital clock said 8am., but instead of getting up he lay still, listening to Natalie's soft, even breathing beside him, trying to identify the curious sensation he felt. It was faintly familiar, but he couldn't remember from when, or where.

He shifted experimentally, then froze in shock as he realized what was happening.

He was aroused as hell.

Not surprising, really, given that Natalie's warm body, clad only in thin cotton pajamas, was still nestled snugly against his. It was something of a relief to know that part of him still worked – it had been a long time, a very, very, _very_ long time, since he'd felt this way and had his body respond in kind. Not since Trudy, definitely. He'd been a monk in practice as well as in name since the last time he'd been with his wife, and had never felt the desire to be with anyone else in that way since then.

Until now.

Slowly, gingerly, he disentangled himself from her and slid out of bed, still rock-hard and fighting the impulse to kiss her, touch her, nuzzle the soft skin of her neck. She shifted and murmured but remained soundly asleep, and he sighed in relief that she hadn't woken first and discovered how his body was reacting to her presence in his bed. That would have been... awkward., he mused, as he headed into the bathroom. It was a good thing he didn't mind cold showers.

* * *

Natalie opened her eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight, and sat up, confused and gazing blankly around the room. It took her a minute to realize that she wasn't her own bed, and another to remember how it was she'd wound up in her boss' bed. He'd carried her there, she remembered fuzzily, carried her there like she was a child and cared for her after her nightmare. She'd fallen asleep in his arms. Had he left his bed after she was asleep? She wasn't sure. The whiskey had done its work and she'd slept long and soundly the rest of the night – and into the morning, she noted, as it was nearly ten.

She sniffed the air, and her brows drew together. Did she smell... pancakes? And _coffee_? Curious, she climbed out of the bed and wandered to the kitchen to investigate.

Sure enough, there Monk stood at the stove, pouring batter into a pan. He was freshly showered and shaved – had she slept through that, too? – and dressed for the day, humming as he worked. He flashed a smile at her when she appeared in the doorway. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Want breakfast?"

"Sure," she said, noticing that the table already held two place settings. She sniffed the air again. "Is that... coffee?"

"Just finished brewing," he said, nodding at the small four-cup coffeemaker on the counter. He never drank the stuff himself, but Natalie kept both coffee and maker on hand for herself and the occasional client. "Help yourself."

"Thank God," she muttered and made a beeline for it. She drank a cup standing at the counter and felt much better. Fairly rested, actually, despite the disturbed night.

"Pancakes are just about ready. Have a seat," he invited. She poured a second cup of coffee, feeling nonplussed at the sudden juxtaposition. How long had it been since she'd had someone fix _her_ breakfast like this? Not a meal at a restaurant or a brunch at her parents' with the servants around, but just sitting companionably in the kitchen, still in her pajamas, while someone else cooked for her? And had Mr. Monk ever cooked for her? Not that she could remember.

She sat, sipped her coffee, watched him flip the pancake – which was, of course, a perfect circle – with surprising deftness. She remembered he'd once said he'd had to take over cooking after his father left and his mother fell apart, and it was plain to see he'd had some practice. And she knew he'd often cooked for Trudy. His OCD had complicated his ability to deal with the disorder inherent in cooking, but this morning it didn't seem to bother him.

He slid the pancake from the pan onto a white plate that already held one perfect pancake, added something – looked like fresh fruit – and brought it over to the table. When he set it in front of her, she took one look and burst out laughing. On the perfect circle of the top pancake, he'd arranged ten blueberries in a smiley-face pattern, with two orange slices for ears. The gesture, so sweet and unexpected, sent delight sluicing through her – a welcome feeling after last night's terror.

"Ambrose used to like that," he said, grinning. "I thought you might too."

"I do," she agreed, beaming at him. "I used to do this for Julie, only with bananas and strawberry yogurt."

He made a face. "Too messy."

She almost hated to destroy his handiwork, but she _was_ hungry. He sat down with his own food and observed, with satisfaction, that she cleaned her plate. The dark circles under her eyes weren't nearly so pronounced, and she looked more rested than she had in days.

When she was finished, she sat back and sipped her orange juice, watching him neatly divide his perfectly round pancakes into perfect squares and eating them bite by bite.

"Thank you for taking care of me last night," she said softly. "I'm sorry about that."

His shoulders jerked a bit, but he didn't look up from his plate. "I'm no stranger to nightmares myself," was all he said.

"Did you have to spend the night on the couch after all?" she asked.

His throat suddenly felt dry as a desert and he took a long drink of water before answering. "You, uh, asked me not to leave you, so I... didn't." His ears were burning red and he was sure his face was the same color.

Amused at his discomfiture, she hid her smile behind her glass. "So..." she said, finishing her juice, "what you're saying is, we slept together."

He choked on his pancake and had to gulp water. "I – I – " he sputtered. He caught the twinkle in her eyes and relaxed. She was teasing him. "In a manner of speaking, I guess."

She studied the bottom of her empty juice glass and said, so quietly he had to strain to hear her, "You called me sweetheart."

His fork stilled above his plate, and he wasn't sure how to respond. He wasn't entirely certain where that had come from. He'd called Trudy "honey," and "dear;" never, to his recollection, had he called her "sweetheart." He wasn't sure why, exactly. But the endearment had come naturally to his lips last night while soothing Natalie.

"Yes," he said, slowly, "I did." He ate another bite, then two, as the silence stretched on. "Do you mind?" he asked, finally.

She shook her head, a small smile on her face. "No."

He grinned. "Then _you_ can do the dishes, sweetheart."

She laughed and took her empty plate to the dishwasher. "I should have known there was a catch." She began loading plates and silverware. "I'll head home once I'm done so I can grab a shower," she remarked as she worked.

"Why don't you just shower here?" he suggested.

She nearly dropped the plate in shock. "Me?" she squeaked. "Shower _here_? In _your_ shower?" He had never – ever – allowed anyone else to use his shower. _Ever_. Well, Jack Jr., maybe, but he'd done so without permission and she knew Monk had spent days scrubbing it down afterward.

"Sure," he said innocently. "I need to clean it anyway, you might as well use it before I do."

She gaped at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," he said testily, beginning to feel a little miffed at her attitude. Okay, maybe he'd never given anyone permission to use his shower before, but there had to be a first time for everything. And he really didn't mind. He had more than enough bleach on hand to sanitize it thoroughly afterward.

She shook her head in amazement and continued loading dishes. "Well, if you're really okay with it..."

"I am," he returned. "Go ahead. Now I need to vacuum."

Once he finished his morning vacuuming routine, he started dusting. He could hear the shower going in the bathroom now that the vacuum was off, and it _didn't _bother him.

Much.

He was _not_ prepared when his thoughts went from cleaning the shower to Natalie in the shower, and from there into graphic detail – very graphic detail. Having excellent visualization capabilities was a sometimes a liability. _Whoa there, calm down_, he told himself sternly. _Celibacy has not been a problem for twelve years and you don't know if that will change anytime soon. You haven't even _kissed_ her yet. _

He sucked in a breath and willed his thoughts elsewhere, and was able to relax fully and finish his dusting before Natalie came out, her face shiny and her hair damp. He could smell his shampoo on her, and for some reason that pleased him absurdly.

"So, was it everything you dreamed it would be?"

She looked at him blankly. "What?"

He waited a beat. "The shower."

It took a moment, but she got the joke and rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, it definitely lived up to the hype," she said dryly. "Have you heard from Captain Stottlemeyer?"

He checked his watch and saw it was past noon. "No, nothing yet."

She frowned, pacing to the window and back again. "Well, now what do we do?"

Monk considered. "We could take a walk."

She stopped pacing and stared at him. "A walk," she repeated flatly. "You want to take a walk?"

"And maybe while we're out walking, we could just happen to pass the police station." Monk went to the closet to get his warm overcoat. "And while we're there, we can go in and see if there's anything we can do."

She grinned. She should have known he wasn't going to stand by and do nothing. "Sounds like a good idea to me."

Stottlemeyer wasn't exactly happy to see them there, but at the same time he seemed to understand their desire to keep busy while waiting for the case to break. He set them to work comparing mug shots of known heroin dealers with similar vital statistics as Dougal's with his photo on the off chance he was in the state and using false identification. Pure busywork and unlikely to yield results, Monk knew, but he was grateful for the distraction.

The captain managed to provide busywork until late in the afternoon, when he finally kicked them out. "I will call the minute we have something new," he promised with more than a little irritation. "But we can't work with the two of you hovering over us."

They trudged back to Monk's apartment in low spirits. Monk knew, intellectually, that it could be weeks before they made any progress. Dougal could be dead, he could be in jail under an assumed name, or he could have fled the country weeks ago. The chances of finding him were, he knew, relatively slim, but he didn't see how any progress could be made on the case without him.

Once they reached his place, Natalie pulled out her car keys. "It's time I went home."

"You could stay another night," Monk offered, reluctant to see her go. He looked at her car and felt a misgiving he couldn't explain. "I mean... in case you have another nightmare."

She smiled wanly. "That's sweet of you, but I'll be okay. I appreciate the offer, though."

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't very well try to kiss her good-bye, not right out on the public street, so he stuck his hands in his pockets and said, "Well, you call me if... you call me if you need anything."

Despite her dejected mood, she had to conceal a smile at the role reversal. Usually it was she who had to drop everything in the middle of the night to rush over if he needed a spider killed or if he'd misplaced his spare Swiffer cloths. "Okay," she said, walking to her car before she could change her mind about going home to an empty house.

He watched her drive away and shivered, although his coat was more than thick enough to protect him from the chill of the wind. The odd feeling of dread persisted as he unlocked his door and stepped into the warmth of his empty apartment – an apartment that suddenly seemed entirely too big for just one man.

Natalie wasn't troubled by any premonitions on her drive home, although she was preoccupied by the events of the day. The nightmare, the breakfast, the shower – and she had to admit there'd been something incredibly surreal about using his shower. It _was_ a nice shower, unlike the small ceramic tub and leaky, stingy showerhead she had at home. His shower had a sparkling silver showerhead without a speck of build-up or rust and adjustable spray patterns, and it was surprisingly roomy – easily big enough for two.

And where the hell had _that _thought come from? She nearly slammed on the brakes in her shock. A horn blared behind her and she forced herself to pay attention to her driving. "Hold it together, Teeger," she muttered to herself.

She needed some time alone, she thought as she pulled into her own driveway. Some time alone in peace and quiet to think about everything that was going on, and figure out how to deal with it. _And_ she had to work out just how she was going to tell Julie everything that was going on, once her daughter returned home from her grandparents' house.

She was so deep in thought when she unlocked her door and entered her house that she didn't catch the sudden movement as she let the door swing shut. A beefy hand clamped over her mouth, another around her waist, pinning her arms, and a low, guttural voice hissed into her ear, "You make a single sound, I'll slit your throat."

In an instant her hands were bound with duct tape and her mouth was gagged with a handkerchief. She was thrown roughly to the floor, and as she rolled to her back she could clearly see her attacker's face in the fading evening light – one she very clearly recognized from the mug shot she'd studied all afternoon.

Wally Dougal was in her house.


	9. Chapter 9

Monk was clad in a plastic apron and rubber gloves, vigorously scrubbing his shower with a sponge, when his phone began to ring. He wiped his gloves on a clean towel and managed to grab the phone on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"Monk, is Natalie there?" Stottlemeyer asked. His voice was sharp and urgent, a tone Monk recognized well, and his stomach clenched in nervousness.

"No, she went home after we left the station. Why?"

"Aw, hell." Stottlemeyer barked orders for a squad car to be dispatched to Natalie's address. "Stay put. Randy and I are on our way to your place now."

"Leland, what's going on?" Monk demanded, thoroughly alarmed.

"The JAG officers went back and talked to Gina Sanchez today – Dougal's ex. They worked her for a while and she finally broke down. He was hiding out in Sacramento and she just talked to him last night, told him about being questioned by JAG. He said something about going to San Francisco to talk to Mitch's widow. I tried Natalie's cell; it rang twice and then the connection was cut off. Callback didn't go through, no answer on her home phone."

Monk angled the phone between his shoulder and chin as he stripped off the rubber gloves and apron. "How did he know where she lives?" he demanded, swiftly folding the apron into a perfect square and tucking the gloves inside it.

"She's in the damn phone book, Monk, and Teeger isn't exactly a common last name." He heard the sirens of the car start screaming. "Our ETA to your place is one minute. Be ready to go."

Monk moved through the apartment swiftly, turning off lights and grabbing his coat, cursing himself roundly. _Why hadn't he followed his instincts and insisted she stay? _He locked his front door just as Stottlemeyer's car screeched to the curb. He yanked open the door and dived inside.

The scene at Natalie's was a madhouse. Two squad cars were in the driveway and one was on the lawn, all with lights flashing wildly. Monk could see a perimeter being set up, and his fears were confirmed. An officer jogged up to their car. "I was just about to call you, sir," he said to Stottlemeyer. "We got here a few minutes ago and approached the residence. My partner went around to cover the back exit. Before I could get to the door, the suspect fired several shots out of the front window. He's in there, sir, and he has a hostage."

"Natalie Teeger?" Stottlemeyer said, exchanging a glace with Randy.

"Yes, sir. I called for a hostage negotiation team, and more backup, as well as a sniper squad."

"Leland." Monk grabbed his sleeve. "Let me go in, try to talk with him. Maybe I – "

"Monk, are you insane?" Stottlemeyer said, whirling around to face him. "Dougal doesn't know you from Adam. He'd shoot you, and probably Natalie too, the minute you walked inside."

"But – " Monk looked at the house, then back at his friend. "She's in there. She's in danger and I can't help her. And if – if she – doesn't make it, I just – I can't – " His face had drained of all color. "I can't go through that again, Leland. I can't. I won't survive it this time."

Stottlemeyer's voice was gentler when he spoke again. "We're going to do everything we can to talk him down, to take him alive if at all possible, and get her out safe. I promise, Monk. Just let us do our jobs."

* * *

Dougal prowled the living room, muttering to himself. "How the hell did they know I was here? The bitch didn't have time to call the police. Did someone see me break into the house? That was hours ago, they wouldn't have waited that long to call. Gina, maybe. Damn it, I bet it was Gina."

Natalie watched him pace the room, her mind whirling frantically. Bound and gagged, she was helpless. It seemed like hours had passed since he'd incapacitated her, but she had no way of knowing. The shattered pieces of her cell phone – Dougal had stomped on it the first time it began to ring after her capture – lay scattered about, but none of the pieces were big enough to use, nor near enough for her to reach, even if she could work her hands free. Her land line was out of commission as well. The second time it had started to ring, maybe fifteen minutes after the police came, he'd yanked the cord out of the wall. There was no way to call for help, even if she could get to a phone, and he had both doors barricaded.

Her previous bartending experience had taught her to recognize someone coming down from a high, and the track marks streaking up and down his arms were another clue. His darkly tanned skin shined with sweat; his pupils were dilated and his black eyes were jittery. What had the captain said he'd been using in Dallas? Heroin, that was it. Maybe if he gave himself another fix, he'd get careless enough to get captured. But what if he didn't have another fix? She knew that coming down from a heroin high could be rough, that it could make people more agitated and prone to violence.

Her gaze darted to the window. Though the curtains and blinds were shut, she could see the lights of the police cars flashing. Was Mr. Monk out there? Probably. She yearned for him, even if being good in a crisis wasn't exactly his forte. Having him to calm down would be better than sitting here in mindless terror, wondering if her daughter would be an orphan before the day was out – and at the hands of the same man who'd killed her father.

She HAD to stay alive. She HAD to – not just for Julie's sake, but for Mr. Monk's as well. It'd be so hard on him to lose another assistant. Given that they'd gotten so... close... lately, her death would devastate him. At least, she she guessed it would. He didn't deserve this extra trauma in his life. She had to make it through for him. If nothing else, she had to make it through so she could figure out what was going on with their relationship.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God_, ran the litany in her head. What was she going to DO?

Dougal suddenly spun on his heel and marched toward her. She braced for a blow, but he merely grabbed the gag and yanked it out of her mouth. "Why were there JAG officers at my girlfriend's house?" he demanded. "Why are they asking about Mitch after all these years?"

Her mouth was dry as sandpaper. "Could I have some water?" she managed.

"Fuck that!" he shouted. "What the hell is going on?"

_Talk_ , a voice that sounded oddly like Mr. Monk's said in her head. _Stall him_.

"They found some new evidence," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how scared she was. "They want to ask you about the circumstances of Mitch's death."

"New evidence?" he repeated. "What new evidence?"

She didn't know what to say or how much to tell him. What if he got angry and killed her? Or got despondent and killed her, and then himself? _Mitch_, that voice in her head said again. _Get him talking about Mitch_.

"It turns out my husband was working with a newspaper reporter to break a story about some Navy officers running a child sex operation. The reporter was killed about the same time he died. The police just found some old papers of hers a few days ago, where she talked about Mitch's involvement. Now, I guess, they're re-examining the events around Mitch's death." His eyes narrowed, but she could tell he was turning this new information over in his mind. "Did you know him well?" she asked.

"We were friends," he shrugged.

"You killed your _friend_?" She knew the words were a terrible idea the minute they escaped her mouth, but she couldn't help it.

"Shut up!" he shouted, his fist shooting out. She dodged as best she could, but the blow caught her on the side of the head. She curled into a fetal position, whimpering as her head exploded with pain.

"Damn it. Goddamn it," Dougal hissed. He was pacing around the room in agitation. "I knew him, all right?" he said to Natalie. "We weren't close or anything like that, but we'd play cards or shoot the shit sometimes." He slowed to look at the framed photo of Julie on the bookshelf. "This his kid? Judy or something?"

"Julie," she corrected automatically. Her head was still pounding but she forced herself to struggle back to a sitting position. _You have to stay alert, stay aware_.

"She looks like him," he said, his eyes darting over the photo of Mitch in military dress, the carefully-preserved American flag. His brows creased at the photo of her, Julie, and Mr. Monk. "This your new boyfriend?"

She surprised herself by almost saying yes. "He's a family friend."

He snorted at that. "Looks like a colossal prick." She had to bite her lip to keep from leaping to Monk's defense.

His gaze wandered over the photos of Julie at various ages. "I have a kid. A son."

"Oh?" She tried to sound interested, and even friendly. _Keep him talking. Stall. _"What's his name?"

"Tyler. We call him Ty. He's eight."

"That's a fun age."

"Yeah." He jingled something in his pockets, sounded like coins or keys. His eyes were still jittery, but he seemed to be keeping himself under some measure of control. Talking about his son calmed him. "I don't get to see him much, but I always send money when I can."

"That's good." She tried to think of something else to say. Her head _hurt_. "Does he look like you, or like his mother?"

Unexpectedly, Dougal grinned. "Spitting image of me."

His smile was genuine, and despite her fear and loathing, she felt a pang of empathy. "You must be proud."

His smile faded, and he looked at the flashing lights outside. "Kid's not a screw-up like me, anyway. He gets good grades. Wants to be an astronaut." He looked at her then. "Like Mitch."

She couldn't hide her surprise. "You knew about that?"

He nodded. "Yeah, he told me once. Said he'd applied to the space program a couple times."

"He got in," she said quietly. "I got the letter a few days after he died."

Dougal started pacing again, his agitation evident. He made two full circuits of the room before stopping in front of her. "It wasn't personal," he blurted. "My cousin Frankie got in touch, said I'd get fifty thousand dollars if I could arrange an accident for the guy. His boss wanted it done. I was deep underwater with gambling debts and I needed the money."

Fifty thousand dollars. Her husband's death had been bought for fifty thousand dollars. Natalie struggled to hide her disgust, and her anger. "You testified he was a coward who ran away with the radio and supplies after the crash. Did he really do that?"

"No." Dougal rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "Embry did. Mitch was trying to stop him. I shot him in the back, said the enemy forces stole his gun and did it."

"You son of a bitch," she whispered through the angry tears she couldn't keep at bay.

His face grew dark with anger. "I needed the money!" he yelled, getting up in her face but keeping his fists at his side. "And I didn't know about the child sex thing. I didn't _know_ about that. Sick bastards."

"The man who paid for the hit was the one who ran the ring," she told him icily. "That money you got was probably part of the profits."

He paled, literally paled, and backed away from her. "I didn't know," he insisted. "I have a kid. I'd never have anything to do with that sick shit."

"But you did," she said, not knowing if it was a good idea to keep pressing the point or not, but she was so angry – her head hurt so badly – that she went with instinct. "You willingly took the money made from selling little boys and girls for sex, and killed a man, just so you could pay off some gambling debts. Do you think your son would be proud of you, if he knew that?"

"Shut up! Shut up!" he yelled. He picked up a knickknack from an end table, a ceramic figurine Julie had once painted for art class, and hurled it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. She was grateful he hadn't thrown it at her. "_I didn't know._"He stood, his chest heaving. "I shouldn't have done it. My life has been shit since then. I can't forget about it, ever, not for a stinking minute – not without drugs. But it's over. It's _done_. I used that money years ago. I can't give it back; I can't fix it."

"Yes, you can," Natalie said, impulsively.

He stopped pacing, regarded her suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"

"That's why JAG wanted to talk to you," she said. "They want you to testify against the ringleader."

"I didn't know him," he protested.

"No, but you knew Frank Nunn," she countered. "And Frank Nunn worked for Beiderbeck – the guy in charge."

He stared at her incredulously. "Beiderbeck? That fat fuck?" he said. "Yeah, Frankie worked for him. I didn't know the shithead was into child sex. Sicko."

"I don't think there's a lot he wouldn't do for more money," she said contemptuously.

Dougal snorted. "That's for damn sure."

"If you testify that Frank Nunn hired you on Beiderbeck's behalf," she pressed, "they can prosecute him for murder, for the child sex ring, for a lot of things."

"What's the point? He's already in jail," Dougal said dismissively. "He offed some judge, then tried to kill the governor. He's never getting out."

"It matters for Mitch," Natalie said quietly. "And for me. And it matters for you, so you can tell your son that you did the right thing."

Dougal didn't look convinced. "He won't know. He'll just know his old man is in the slammer."

"I'll tell him," Natalie said firmly. "I promise I will. I _never_ break my promises. And maybe – " She was way out of her depth in this regard, but desperate to get him to agree. "Maybe you can do jail time in Sacramento so your son can come visit you."

He all but rolled his eyes at her. "The cops'll never agree to that," he objected. "Or the military."

"I'll talk to them," Natalie said desperately. "I have friends in the police department, in the military. You can probably work out a deal in return for your testimony, and if you surrender voluntarily, with me alive, that'll look good for you too." Maybe honesty was the worst policy at this point, but she was out of ideas. "This place is surrounded with cops. Surrendering is the only way your son will grow up with his father alive."

He glanced out the window again, and she knew that thought had already occurred to him. He met her gaze squarely. "I walk out of here, and they'll shoot me before I can say anything."

She hardly dared breathe. "They want you alive. They want your testimony. And I have a friend who's out there. He's a captain in the SFPD. I can call him, explain the situation. If he promises that no one will hurt you, I know he'll keep his word. And I'll walk out first, in front of you."

This surprised him. "You'd do that?"

She nodded.

He jingled the contents of his pockets again. "Mitch used to talk about you all the time. Said you were a stand-up woman. I used to give him shit about it, but maybe he was right."

"Do we have a deal, Wally?" she asked, her heart in her throat.

He considered, then pulled a long, thin object from his pocket. He snapped the switchblade open and started toward her.

She closed her eyes, braced, and let out a shaky sigh of relief as he cut the duct tape from her wrists and ankles.

* * *

Monk prowled the perimeter of the police barricade restlessly. It'd been nearly an hour and a half of silence. Dougal had disabled the land line in the house and wasn't responding to the bullhorn calls of the hostage negotiator. He was keeping himself and Natalie away from the windows, behind the couch, so the snipers couldn't get a decent shot. All the entrances were barricaded. The guy was ex-military, and it showed.

They were talking about tear gas, but Monk didn't see how it would work. There was no way to get a canister inside, and Dougal would probably realize what was happening in enough time to take out his hostage and himself, too. He shuddered at the thought.

Lieutenant Gautier had talked about flying in Dougal's girlfriend and son, seeing if they could talk to him, but it'd be hours before they'd arrive once that decision was made.

He circled back to where Stottlemeyer and Disher were talking to the head of the SWAT team. "Anything?" he asked desperately.

"No," Stottlemeyer said. "Clarke – " he nodded at the SWAT commander "thinks they might be able to quietly break down one of the barricades, get a man inside."

"But if he hears you, that could put Natalie in danger," Monk objected.

"She's already in danger," Disher pointed out. "It's a question of acceptable risk."

"I don't – " Stottlemeyer began, but was interrupted when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout and his eyes widened. "Holy shit, it's Natalie."

"What?" Without thinking, Monk grabbed for the phone, but Stottlemeyer held it out of reach.

"It's the house line," he said to Disher. "Get the negotiator over here, pronto." He flipped open the cell. "This is Captain Stottlemeyer, SFPD. Who is this?" He listened for a moment, his eyes widening even further. "_Natalie_? Are you –"

Monk stared anxiously, his hands twisting and untwisting, as Stottlemeyer's brows furrowed. "He's what?" A minute more, then, "Natalie, is he on the line with you?" Pause. "Is this a trick? Just say 'yes' if it is." Pause. "You're _sure_." He took a deep breath. "Okay, I promise. We'll be ready." He flipped the phone shut.

"What – " Monk asked, but was ignored. Stottlemeyer conferred quickly and quietly with the negotiator and SWAT commander, then turned away and began barking orders, telling cops to stand down but remain at alert.

"Leland, what's happening?" Monk demanded, frantic, turning to block his path.

"She said he wants to surrender, but he's afraid he's going to get shot if he comes out," Stottlemeyer finally told him.

"He's going to –" His heart leaped into his throat. "How do we know he's not going to start shooting cops the minute he walks out that door?"

"We don't. That's why we're going to have snipers ready to take him out if he reaches for a weapon. But Natalie swore it wasn't a trick and made me promise no one would be pointing weapons at him when they came out. _Visibly_ pointing weapons at him, anyway," he added. "Like I said, snipers will be ready, just in case."

A tense five minutes later, the front door of the house cracked open. The scene was eerily silent. Monk waited at the very edge of the police barricade, holding his breath.

The door opened wider, and Natalie edged out slowly. "He's not armed," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't shoot." She slowly inched forward, her hands in the air. Dougal followed behind her, his hands up as well. He looked around warily, his body tensed for the sound of gunfire.

She didn't seem to be hurt, but then Monk spotted a darkening bruise on her right temple. It was a damn good thing he didn't have his gun with him, because at that moment he felt as if he could have cheerfully used it on Dougal – promise or no promise.

Natalie's eyes were large and frightened. They scanned the lights, the barricade, the crowd, until they met his and locked on squarely. He surged forward but Disher grabbed his arm. "Not now," the lieutenant hissed. "Wait 'til she's clear."

As soon as Dougal left the confines of the porch, Stottlemeyer ordered, "Go!" and SWAT officers rushed the pair, securing Dougal's hands behind him and patting him down for weapons. Two more officers grabbed for Natalie, but she shook them off and ran forward. Disher let go of Monk and he dodged past the barricade, meeting her halfway. They collided together in such a forceful embrace that they nearly tumbled to the ground.

For the next several minutes, all he could manage to do was hold on to her for dear life, as the noise and confusion of the police and SWAT teams swirled around them. "You're safe. You're safe now," he repeated over and over, not sure if he was reassuring her or himself. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in her scent, took comfort in feeling her warmth against him.

She said something that he couldn't make out, and when he pulled back he saw that her eyes were glassy.

She blinked at him. Then blinked again as he seemed to grow an extra head. Either that or she was seeing double.

"Natalie?" he said, and his voice echoed slightly, as if he was speaking from the end of a long, dark tunnel.

"I... uh oh," she slurred, and her eyes rolled back into her head as she crumpled into his arms, unconscious.


	10. Chapter 10

When Natalie came to, an EMT was gently prying her eyelids open to look at her pupils.

She jerked in alarm, but then Monk moved into her range of vision. He was holding her hand, and he put gentle pressure on her shoulder, easing her back down. "It's okay," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "Just lie still, let them check you out."

She was lying on a gurney, she realized, in an ambulance. A moving ambulance. No sirens that she could hear, though.

The EMT gently moved his fingers over the bruise on her head, and she winced and cried out in pain.

"Sorry," the medic apologized as Monk squeezed her hand reassuringly. "That's quite a lump you have there. Might've caused a concussion."

He reached behind him for a cold pack, wrapped it in gauze, twisted to activate, and held it against her aching head. She sighed as the blessed coolness helped ease the throbbing pain. "That's better," she murmured, relaxing slightly.

Monk took over holding the pack to her head as the EMT made notes in a chart. "You're a little dehydrated," he said as he wrote, "so we'll get you some fluids once we get to the ER."

They reached the hospital a few minutes later, and in short order she found herself in a triage room, propped up against pillows, the lights dim, gratefully sipping at a glass of ice water as a nurse started an IV. Monk paled at the sight of the needle and turned away, but to his credit he didn't bolt from the room.

Once the nurse left he adjusted her bedding fussily, tugging and pulling until the blankets were straight, centered, and even. Then he went to work on her pillows, plumping and adjusting. "There," he finally said, and stepped back, satisfied. "That's better."

As he sat back down in the chair by her bed, she got a good look at him for the first time all evening. He seemed... haggard, she decided. His eyes were hollow and shadowed, his cheeks were pale, his usually immaculate clothes were rumpled.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Me?" He blinked, surprised at the question. "I'm not the one in the hospital bed." He glanced at the IV bag and shuddered slightly.

"I'm _fine_," she told him, reaching out for his hand. "Really."

_Easy for her to say_, he thought. She couldn't see her own pallid complexion, or the ugly, swollen bruise mottling her right temple. "I was so scared," he blurted. "And I couldn't do anything to help you."

"Adrian, you _did_ help me," she told him.

He blinked in surprise at her use of his first name. "Natalie, I was sitting outside doing nothing while you were in there with that – that _monster_. There was nothing – "

"But you did help," she insisted. "Look, I know it sounds strange, but when I was in there, I – well – I kind of heard your voice in my head, telling me what to do. And when I got out, you were there, waiting for me." She linked her fingers with his. "When I saw you, I knew I was safe."

He started to shake and couldn't stop. "I thought – I thought you'd – and I couldn't –"

She drew him to her and held him tight. He made no sound, but she could feel hot tears seeping into the cloth of her shirt as he clung to her. She remembered how he'd soothed her after her nightmare, and felt that now she was doing the same – only the nightmare had been real this time, and they'd both had to live through it.

She rested her cheek on his head and stroked his hair, and after a few minutes he raised his head. He reached up and framed her face with his hands. "Don't leave me," he whispered, desperately, his eyes drilling into hers.

She covered his hands with her own. "Never."

To her surprise, he smiled, his eyes warming with affection. "I wasn't sure if you'd heard that."

She smiled back. "I did."

He leaned forward slightly, bending his head closer to hers, fully intending, _finally_, to kiss her – but a knock on the door caused him to jerk back. Stifling a curse, he sat down as the door eased open.

"Hey, okay if I come in?" Stottlemeyer asked, poking his head inside.

"The door's open," Natalie said, wondering if her face looked as flushed as it felt. She covered her discomfiture by grabbing her water cup and drinking deeply.

He came in – and to her surprise, Lieutenant Gautier followed behind him. "How're you feeling?" the lieutenant asked.

"I'm all right," she said, noticing his sharp eyes arrowing in on her bruised face. "It looks worse than it feels."

"Where's Randy?" Monk asked.

"He's getting our suspect through booking and taking care of some of the paperwork," Stottlemeyer said. He sat down in the other visitor's chair, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Wally Dougal had quite the statement. Seems someone convinced him to do the right thing for his son's sake."

Natalie squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. "I – I was just trying to stall for time."

"You talked him down," Gautier said, standing ramrod straight in a military posture. "You were bound, gagged, trapped in your own home at the mercy of a violent killer, and you not only talked him down, you convinced him to testify against Beiderbeck." He shook his head, and the admiration was clear on his face. "You are quite a woman, Ms. Teeger."

She cleared her throat, embarrassed. "I, um, sort of told him I'd try to see if he could serve time in Sacramento, so he could be near his son. Do you know if that's possible?"

Gautier considered. "Well, it's going to be a while before all the legal wrangling is done," he said, finally. He paced the room in slow, measured steps as he talked. "Dallas PD is going to want to extradite him for the charges pending there, unless we can convince them to drop them as part of a plea deal. And he'll have to be tried separately by the JAG Corps due to his Navy crimes. But... California State Prison in Sacramento _is _a maximum-security facility, so I might be able to pull some strings and see that he's housed there, at least for a portion of his sentence."

"I'd appreciate it," she said, relieved.

"You want to _help_ him?" Monk stared at her, aghast. "After he _killed_ your husband, lied about it, and then came back and held you hostage?"

She met his shocked gaze squarely. "Holding on to hate won't bring Mitch back, but cooperating with Dougal might at least get him justice. I'd rather have justice than revenge."

The room was silent for nearly a full minute, until Stottlemeyer cleared his throat. "Quite a woman," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Listen, I called your parents' place and talked to Julie, gave her the short version of what happened tonight. I didn't want her to hear about it on the news before she heard it from me or you."

"No, I suppose not." Natalie sighed, secretly ashamed that she hadn't thought to call her daughter herself.

"She said she was going to come home tomorrow."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Home? But – "

"I know, I know. I managed to talk your parents into staying put, and I tried to convince her to stay where she was, but she insisted." The captain smiled wryly. "She's got a stubborn streak."

Natalie grinned. "_Tell_ me about it."

"Listen, I've taken a look at your place – it just needs some cleaning and new locks, since the one on the back door was busted. I'll call your landlord tomorrow and, uh, expedite that process. In fact, I'll install new locks myself if he gives me the green light."

"I can do the cleaning," Monk volunteered.

"Yes, you sure as hell can," Stottlemeyer agreed.

There was a light tap at the door, and a tall woman in a white coat stepped inside. She had dark hair streaked with silver that was pulled back in a chignon, and large, almond-shaped black eyes that studied the occupants of the room coolly, before she spoke in a voice that was faintly Hispanic. "Excuse me, I'm Dr. Hector. I came to examine Ms. Teeger."

"We'll get out of your way," Stottlemeyer told her, rising to leave. "Natalie, we're going to go to the cafeteria, grab some coffee."

Monk rose too, but Natalie caught his hand in hers. "Please stay," she said, softly.

He sat back down as the other two men filed out. Dr. Hector sized the two of them up, her eyes lingering on their joined hands. "You must be Adrian Monk."

He nodded. "Have we met?"

She smiled. "No, but we have a mutual friend. My husband is Dr. Neven Bell." She inclined her head as Monk's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "As I understand that you prefer not to shake hands, I'll introduce myself to your assistant instead." Her face was solemn but her eyes were twinkling as she held out her hand to Natalie. "Anna Hector. It's good to meet you."

"Likewise," Natalie said, shaking her hand. "I knew you were a doctor too, but I didn't realize you worked in the ER."

"It's worse than that; I'm actually Chief of Emergency Medicine here," she said, laughing a little. "I recognized your name from the intake sheet and decided to see to you myself. Neven would expect nothing less."

"Oh, you don't have to – " Natalie began, but Dr. Hector cut her off.

"It's a privilege, really," she said, laying the file she carried on the bedside table and pulling on a pair of sterile gloves. "Given Neven's association with both of you, I've followed Mr. Monk's cases quite closely in the media. I have to admit, I'm a fan. And I owe you both – " she nodded at Monk, "– a favor for your role in the matter of Xavier Danko."

"Xavier gave himself up," Monk said, shrugging modestly. "I didn't really _do_ anything."

"It's the thought that counts," Dr. Hector disagreed, smiling. "Now, Natalie, let's take a look at you."

She carefully probed the bruise on Natalie's forehead, looked at her pupils, gently felt her skull, and asked questions – about Julie, her parents, her childhood home, her work. "How long was she unconscious?" she asked, directing her question at Monk.

"I'm not sure, exactly. No more than five minutes," he answered.

She nodded, satisfied. "That's quite a bruise," she said to Natalie, "but I don't think you have a concussion – or, if you do, it's very mild. Your memory isn't impaired, your pupils look good, there doesn't seem to be any sub-cranial swelling, and the amount of time you were unconscious can easily be attributed to shock and emotional trauma, coupled with the dehydration, as opposed to a head injury." She pulled off the gloves and disposed of them.

"So, I don't have to stay here tonight?" Natalie asked, her eyes brightening.

"I don't see any reason to keep you here for observation, so I'll release you into Mr. Monk's care. Keep a cold pack on that bruise every few hours for the next twelve, and that should help the swelling considerably. Take it easy for the next few days, use over-the-counter painkillers for any headache, and of course call me if the pain gets worse or if any new symptoms come up." She took a business card out of her coat pocket and handed it Natalie. "I'll direct the staff to forward any calls from you to me immediately, whether I'm home or here."

"What about – " Natalie hesitated. "There's, um, a party, on New Year's Eve. We were going to go." She glanced at Adrian and then back at Dr. Hector. "I suppose that's off the table?"

"Of course it is," Adrian said, his eyes widening in alarm. "You were _unconscious_. You can't go to a big party two days after like nothing happened."

"Hmmm." Dr. Hector tapped a fingernail on the table, considering. "Would that be the SFPD Charity Gala?"

"That's the one," Natalie confirmed. "It's at the Four Seasons and I've been looking forward to it for _months_. I bought a new dress and everything."

Adrian looked from Natalie to Dr. Hector. "She can't go," he protested. "She was _hurt_. You said she should take it easy."

Dr. Hector studied Natalie. "Did you buy new shoes, too?" she asked.

"Yes, of course."

"High heels?"

"One-and-a-half inches."

The doctor nodded. "Not too high, then. Good. I'll tell you what – stay off your feet as much as possible today and tomorrow. Find a ride or take a cab to the hotel – no driving for you just yet. When you go to the party, you stay hydrated – no caffeine, no alcohol. Water or juice would be best. Stay off your feet there, too, as much as you can. You don't have to sit out all the dances, but don't overdo. If you start feeling dizzy or overtired, go home and rest. Head injuries, even those that don't result in concussions, shouldn't be trifled with, but on the other hand I don't see why you can't attend the gala as long as you're sensible about it. Neven and I will be there, also, if you start feeling unwell." She smiled at Adrian. "And, of course, you'll have Mr. Monk to keep an eye on you."

"But I – " he began to object. Then he saw Natalie's hopeful expression and sighed. "I suppose so."

She beamed, squeezing his hand. "Thank you."

Dr. Hector grinned at them. "I'll send a nurse in with your discharge papers. It was nice meeting the both of you."

* * *

Stottlemeyer dropped them off at Monk's apartment, with promises to come back to take them to Natalie's house the next morning so they could begin cleaning and repairs.

As he unlocked his door, amazed he'd remembered to lock it behind him in the first place, Adrian couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so exhausted. He couldn't wait to crawl into bed and –

Bed.

The thought halted him in his tracks. He only had one bed. He couldn't expect Natalie to sleep on the couch, not after what she'd gone through tonight. She needed to be as comfortable as possible. _He_ could sleep on the couch, he supposed, but –

"What's wrong?" Natalie asked, stifling a yawn. She'd been staring blankly into space, trying to stay awake, when she realized he was just standing in the foyer, holding his coat, confusion etched on his face.

He blinked, frowning, and finished hanging up his coat. "I was just... I'm not too sure what to do about, uh, sleeping arrangements."

"Oh." It took her brain a minute to catch up. "I'll just sleep on the couch – "

"No, you're supposed to rest," Adrian disagreed. "You'll get better rest in the bed."

"Well... I guess _you_ could sleep on the couch," Natalie suggested, surprised at his vehemence.

"I suppose," he said, frowning again.

She raised an eyebrow. "But...?"

"I... it's just that..." He flushed crimson and took a deep breath. "I don't want you to be alone." He gave her one quick, apologetic glance and blushed again, his gaze fixed steadily at a point above her head. "Actually, it's more that... I don't think I _can_ leave you alone. Not after what happened tonight."

She was so fatigued that it took her a minute to understand what he was saying. "To be completely honest, I'd rather not be alone."

"Well..." He glanced down the hall toward the bedroom and rolled his shoulders nervously. "It's a queen-sized bed. I mean, there's room for two people."

She was too tired to stand anymore, so she wandered into the living room and sat down on the arm of a chair. "What are we doing, Adrian?" she asked.

"We're... we're trying to figure out sleeping arrangements," he said, instantly concerned. Maybe she had a concussion after all. He moved to sit in the chair across from her so he could look in her eyes and see if they were glassy. To his relief, they looked clear and focused, albeit tired and troubled, as she averted her eyes from him. "Natalie?" he asked.

She blew out a breath. "The truth is, I'm scared to death."

He stiffened. "Of me?"

"Not of _you_, exactly." She ran a hand through her hair, wishing she was better at putting her jumbled thoughts into words. "I'm scared about what might happen to you if this... if whatever is going on between us... doesn't work out." She summed up her courage and met his eyes. "I'd rather die than hurt you."

He swallowed, his throat feeling like sandpaper. "What makes you think you'll hurt me?"

"I don't know." She was too tired to stand up and start pacing, so she worried the handle of her purse in her hands instead. "I'm not saying it's logical, I just... maybe it's better if we just keep things as they are for a while, at least until –"

"I love you." He hadn't planned to say the words, not here and now, but they seemed to leap out of his mouth of their own accord.

Her hands stilled. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"I love you. I'm _in love_ with you," he clarified. "I – I didn't fully realize it until earlier tonight, when I thought I might lose you." It was funny that he didn't feel nervous at all. On the contrary, he felt strangely calm. "There's no going back for me, Natalie."

A tear slipped silently down her cheek. "I – I don't know what to say," she said, working furiously to remain composed. "I don't know how I feel. With everything that's been going on – with Mitch, and Trudy, I just don't – " She lost the attempt to fight back her tears and started to cry in earnest – started to cry for the first time that night. All the fear and panic she'd kept carefully contained came spilling out in a torrent of tears.

Distressed, Adrian rose to pull her up and into his arms. "Shhh, it's okay," he murmured as she sobbed against his chest. "I'm sorry, I didn't plan to say anything so soon. It just happened. I don't – we don't have to decide anything tonight." He stroked her back. "Please don't cry. I'm sorry."

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she managed between sobs.

"You're tired, and overwrought," Adrian said, running his hands up and down her arms. "You need sleep. Listen, if you'll feel better about it, I can take the couch."

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I really don't want to be alone tonight," she gulped, sniffling. "But it's not fair to you to ask you to – to stay with me with things so – when everything is so unclear."

"If you don't want to be alone, then you aren't going to be alone," he stated firmly. "We're going to share the bed. Just as – as friends. All right?" He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the tears off her face. "No monkey business, I promise."

As he'd hoped it would, the comment caused her lips to quirk. "'Monkey business'?"

"Come to think of it, I'm not sure what exactly monkeys do for business," he mused, replacing his handkerchief in his pocket. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know."

She laughed, and the tension in the room eased.

"Go get your nightclothes on, and go to bed," he said, squeezing her hands gently. "You need to rest."

She did as he said, and crawled into bed as he was taking his turn in the bathroom. She was so tired that she drifted off only moments after her head hit the pillow. By the time Adrian emerged from the bathroom in his pajamas, she was sound asleep.

After he put his clothes away, he climbed into bed himself and laid there, his head propped on his hand, watching Natalie sleep. It was strange to have a woman other than Trudy on that side of his bed, but at the same time... it seemed right. He couldn't really explain it any other way. With a sigh, he laid back on the pillow and fell deeply into sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, he thought it was morning and the sun was shining. He started to get up, then stilled as he realized that the soft glow of light was coming from the foot of his bed, where it surrounded a woman who was standing there, smiling at him.

"Trudy," he breathed.

"Hello, Adrian," she said. Her voice was low and sweet.

He suddenly realized that they weren't alone in the room, as they usually were when Trudy "visited" him. Natalie was still sleeping peacefully beside him, and his gaze flew from one woman to the other as he frantically groped for an explanation.

"Trudy, I – I – this isn't what it looks like – " he stammered, feeling ridiculously guilty.

"I know exactly what the situation is," Trudy said gently. "You've fallen in love again, and I couldn't be happier for you."

"She's – " he began, and then the meaning of what she said caught up to him. "You are? Really?"

"Of course." Trudy moved to sit on his side of the bed. "Adrian, I know that you'll never stop loving me, and I know that you can never love anyone the same way you loved me. But that doesn't mean there isn't room in your heart for a different kind of love." She took his left hand in hers. "Loving Natalie doesn't detract from your love for me. It complements it."

"Trudy, I promised I'd be your husband forever," he said, gazing into the beloved eyes he knew so well.

"No, my love," she said softly. "You vowed to love, honor, and cherish me until death parted us. And it did." She looked momentarily sad. "I'm very sorry about the key. At the time, I'm afraid I wasn't thinking very clearly. I should have told you everything from the start."

"It's all right," he assured her. "I understand."

Her face turned serene again. "I know you do." She gently caressed his hand, and then, ever so slowly, she slid his wedding ring off his finger. She placed it in his palm and closed his fingers over it. "I think it's time that this came off," she told him. "Our marriage may be over, but our love is still there and always will be. You have so much love to give, Adrian, and I'm so pleased you've found someone to share your life again."

"Well – maybe – " he hesitated. He couldn't help but glance at Natalie. "I don't know if she feels about me the way I feel about her."

"Give her a little time," Trudy said, smiling. "She'll come around eventually. I did."

He chuckled. "That's right. It took you a little while, as I recall."

She touched his cheek, and leaned in to place a light, gentle kiss on his lips. "Be well. Be _happy_, Adrian."

And just like that, she was gone.

He sat in the darkness, blinking, wondering if it had all been a dream. Then he realized his fist was clenched, and when he opened his fingers, his wedding ring rested on his palm.


End file.
